


Lay Me to Sleep

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Catch Me When I Fall [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, African Dream Root, BAMF Castiel, Case Fic, Dreams and Nightmares, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 05, Team Free Will, Winchesters to the Rescue, memories of hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt goes awry when a dream eating monster begins stalking Dean. Nightmares of Hell aren't new to him, but then the beast sinks its teeth into Cas, trapping the angel in a dream world of his own darkest memories from the pit. Can Sam and Dean save him before the creature devours his entire essence? Or will the journey into their worst fears be the undoing of them all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Abnormal Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This story builds on the character development from “The Collector,” but it's not necessary to read that first in order to get this one.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Dante’s Inferno. They simply make for entertaining playgrounds.

 

Sam sat at a desk in the Hayward County’s morgue with three separate autopsy files spread before him. He’d read in the newspaper about the victims’ organs being liquefied, which was how he and Dean had caught the case, but the coroner’s detailed notes provided a vividly unappetizing picture.

“Okay, so over the past two weeks, a taxi driver, retired war veteran, and a single woman in her early thirties were found in remote locations, their insides completely turned to jelly.” He scrunched up his nose. That was a new one. “Even though it sounds like dump sites, the M.E. hasn’t been able to determine foul play. And all the tests for pathogens have come back negative.”

Sam swiveled on the stool to face Dean and Cas, who were examining a fourth body that had come in. Well, Cas was inspecting the cadaver. Dean’s attention was turned toward the window and the pathologist with long legs and mahogany hair standing in the hall. She twisted her waist coquettishly and stuck the tip of a pen in her mouth. Dean winked at her.

“Agent Stills.” When his brother didn’t respond, Sam coughed obtrusively.

“Hm?” Dean looked back at him. “What? I’m listening. Coroner’s got nothing.”

Sam suppressed a sigh. More or less. “Okay, well there’s this: one of the reports mentions blue ink in the shape of a handprint. Our vic there got anything?”

Castiel tilted his head to study the twenty-five-year-old male, and reached for the guy’s right arm.

Dean finally snapped his attention away from the brunette. “Dude, put on some gloves, remember?”

Cas quirked a brow. “There aren’t any contaminants on the body that can harm an angel.”

Dean flashed an “everything’s good” smile at the lady pathologist, who was still watching them. “Yeah, but you’re not an angel right now; you’re F.B.I. And agents wear gloves.”

He grabbed a pair from a box on the equipment tray and slapped them in Castiel’s hand. The angel barely held back a subtle eye roll, which almost made Sam laugh. Cas was picking up too many of Dean’s mannerisms.

It was nice having him around more though. He still flitted off in search of God every now and then, but those trips were happening less often and for shorter durations. Sam didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. Was Cas losing faith that he’d ever find his father? It sure seemed like the Big Man Upstairs didn’t want to be found, and Sam could kind of understand what that was like. How many times had his dad left him and Dean to go on hunts, sometimes months at a time? At least Cas seemed to finally realize that even if his Heavenly family was screwed up, he always had a home to come back to—with the Winchesters.

Castiel gestured to the corpse. “I was merely going to point out that this body does bear a faint blue handprint.”

Sam rose from the desk and went over to look. It wasn’t that spectacular looking, more like someone had dipped their hand in paint and then grabbed the victim’s arm. “Doesn’t look like a tattoo.”

“No,” Cas agreed. “It’s fading.”

“So we’ve got a monster that liquifies people’s insides and leaves a blue handprint.” Dean lifted his brows. “Ring any bells?”

Sam shrugged, while Castiel continued to stare at the body, forehead creased in his usual deep thought.

“Okay then,” Dean said after a moment. “Time to hit the lore.”

“Call me when you’ve identified the culprit,” Cas said.

“Wait—” Dean started, but Castiel had already vanished with a swish of air. “Till we get outside,” he grumbled, and shot a look at the window to make sure the cute pathologist hadn’t just seen an F.B.I. agent teleport out of the morgue. Thankfully, she had returned to her paperwork once Dean had stopped checking her out.

Sam shook his head. Maybe Cas wanted to get in a little God hunting while the Winchesters handled the research.

They headed back to their motel where Sam pulled out his laptop at the room’s bulky square table. Dean settled across from him with their dad’s journal.

A couple hours later, Dean slapped the tabletop. “I think I got it, Sammy. Dad’s got a notation about an abnormal djinn. This bastard off-shoot liquifies its victims’ organs and leaves a blue handprint.” He frowned. “Remember that second djinn in Magnus’s zoo? That was probably one.”

Sam grimaced. He tried not to think about that creepy place—or Cas becoming one of those “exhibits.”

“Sounds like we have a winner,” he said, pulling up a new browser tab. “Okay, so djinn like to hide out in ruins. I’ll search for old properties within the radius of where the bodies were discovered.”

“And I’ll get the lamb’s blood.”

While Dean took off to ready the weapons they’d need to kill a djinn, Sam started making a list of real estate holdings to check out. Three locations looked promising: an abandoned warehouse, abandoned hospital, and—of course—abandoned shoe factory. He queued up maps and directions to each in his phone and saved them. Then he called Cas.

“Hey, we’ve got a lead—”

The edges of the curtains fluttered and Sam looked up to find Castiel standing next to him, phone still pressed to his ear. Shaking his head, Sam hung up.

“We’re pretty sure we’re dealing with a djinn, some kind of cousin or something,” he explained, and reached across the table to pick up John’s journal. “Everything fits.”

Cas skimmed the page. “Have you located it?”

“We have a few possibilities. Once Dean gets back from dipping the silver knives in lamb’s blood, we’ll be good to go.”

Sam set the book down, and then shifted in his seat when Cas didn’t move away from the table. The angel wasn’t close enough to violate personal space boundaries Dean had been trying to teach him about, but he hadn’t gotten the hang of simply relaxing either. And standing ramrod straight two feet from Sam was downright awkward.

Sam cleared his throat. “You want to sit down while we wait?”

Castiel blinked, brow pinching as he swept his gaze around the room. It was one of the nicer motels the Winchesters had stayed at—no peeling paint or frays in the upholstery. A piece of diamond-shaped latticework was erected between the beds and the kitchenette, which even had a coffee maker.

After a moment, Cas took the seat across from Sam, resting his hands in his lap. Sam turned his attention back to the real estate listings in case he’d missed any, but found himself continually glancing at the angel, who looked…tired. Cas was always sporting that rumpled look, but now there were slight shadows under his eyes, and his blue tie looked even more askew.

Sam’s mouth turned down. Castiel’s falling state was not something the angel liked to talk about. He seemed to waffle between denial that anything was wrong, and writing himself off as completely useless. Hopefully such self-deprecating thoughts had been put to rest the more he aided the Winchesters on hunts. And he’d been helping plenty lately…though now Sam had to wonder if there was another reason the angel had been sticking close.

“Hey, Cas,” he said tentatively. “How are you doing?”

Castiel quirked a confused brow. “Fine.”

Sam resisted rolling his eyes; he hadn’t really expected a different answer, and pushing Cas went about as well as pushing Dean. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, right? If you were having any problems?”

“Like what?”

Before Sam could name any sore subjects, Dean walked through the door.

“Hey, Cas, just in time. We’re ready to hunt a djinn.”

Castiel tilted his head. “I believe I was here before you, Dean.”

Dean paused to throw him a befuddled look. “What? Never mind. Got a location, Sam?”

“Yeah, a few.”

They packed up and headed out to the Impala where Cas surprised them both by opening the door and climbing into the backseat. Dean tossed Sam a proud grin before sliding behind the wheel. Sam wanted to smile, but he couldn’t help casting a furtive glance at the angel as he ducked into the passenger seat. Cas hadn’t offered to teleport them to the locations. It would certainly make the hunt go faster, as they had a lot of ground to cover. Granted, Dean usually refused Angel Air, saying Cas was going to hurt Baby’s feelings if he kept up talk like that. The bemused expression on Cas’s face had been priceless, and the memory made Sam’s lips twitch.

But was Cas learning to do things the human way? Or was the angel gradually losing the ability to do otherwise? He could still fly on his own, obviously, but there was a subtle weight and weariness to his shoulders when he popped in now. Part of the problem, Sam suspected, was none of them knew what slowly falling even meant. Would his powers remain stuck at half-mast, or continue to diminish until he was just an immortal with limited human abilities? Or would he become fully human?

“Hello, Sam?” Dean’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

He shook his head. “Sorry.” One problem at a time. Pulling his phone out, Sam tapped the screen. “Take a left up here.”

* * *

The abandoned warehouse had been a bust, which was somewhat disappointing. Because wasn’t it always a warehouse where the monsters liked to hang out?

It was early evening by the time Dean pulled the Impala into a weeded lot for an old, deserted hospital. Damn, the place was huge. Four stories tall and taking up a whole block. It could take them all night to search the place, all the while the djinn may not even be there, but at the third location melting some poor bastard’s insides.

Dean tucked his silver knife behind his back. “We should split up. Work our way around the first floor and then up.”

No one disagreed as they approached the doors. Sam stuck his tension wrench and pick in the lock and worked at it for a few minutes before it clicked open. Dean tossed him a pointed look. _Be careful._

Sam nodded once. _Same to you._

Cas strode down the right corridor without a word, not yet familiar with exchanging silent wishes for good hunting.

Sam took the hallway leading into the center of the hospital, and Dean headed left to sweep the south wing.

Dean hated hospitals—the smell of antiseptic and vomit, the cold, sterile walls, and the pitying glances from staff. There was none of that in this place though. The stench of urine and rat feces permeated the halls, and nearly every surface was smeared with dust and grime. Dean stepped lightly over crumpled trash, probably left over from squatters. A chill hung in the air as the sun outside sank toward the horizon and the temperature began to drop.

He’d covered almost the entire wing and was beginning to suspect “abandoned” actually meant not a single soul was around, when a clatter of metal echoed from a room a few doors down.

“Sam?” he hissed. “Cas?”

No answer. Maybe it was rats.

Another clang shattered the silence. Really big rats.

Dean drew his knife and crept toward a set of swinging double doors. Pressing his back against the aluminum, he angled his neck to peer through one of the oxidized, square windows. Visibility was limited, but he didn’t spot any movement. Then his gaze latched onto a gurney in the middle of the room, a body strapped to it.

_Son-of-a-bitch._

He slipped inside, doing a visual sweep of what looked like a large triage infirmary. Old beds were spaced along the back wall, with rolling partitions erected between some of them. The room appeared empty. Dean quickened his pace to the gurney, pulling up short at the sight of a bright blue handprint on the guy’s forearm. The body was unnaturally still, and Dean hovered a hand over the man’s mouth and nose; no breath puffed against his skin. He could’ve checked for a pulse, but one of the previous victims had exploded when some kids poked the corpse, and Dean did not want blood and guts all over his jacket.

Metal clinked behind him, and he whirled, knife raised. Nothing came flying at him, and there was no sign of the djinn. Maybe rats were creeping about. _Yeah, like rats tied this guy down._ The kill looked fresh too.

Dean reached into his coat pocket for his phone so he could text Sam that he’d found something. A thin metal pole whacked him across the back, and he pitched forward with a grunt. Pain lanced down his spine, momentarily stunning him. Hands grabbed the back of his jacket and hauled him up. Twisting around, Dean slashed with the knife.

The djinn released him and jumped back. It was a woman, with ebony hair fastened in a tight bun, wearing nice slacks and a silk blouse. She could’ve been a CEO if it weren’t for the glowing blue eyes.

Dean thrust his knife toward her chest. She dodged and darted around to place the gurney between them. Dean feinted left, attempting to spur her into bolting, but she didn’t fall for it. Instead, she shoved the gurney at him. The foot of the bed caught him in the stomach, and he almost doubled forward across the victim.

Before he could right himself, the djinn had scooped up the IV pole again and swung it hard. Dean managed to throw his arm up to block, the impact thudding along his ulna. One of the pronged metal legs clubbed his ear, and an array of spots blinded him to the fist that followed. He slumped down the edge of the gurney and was out before he hit the floor.

* * *

When he came to, Dean’s wrists and ankles were strapped to a bed with those leather restraints used for mental patients. Yeah, he really hated hospitals.

The female djinn stood over him, eyes wild and hungry. Some strands of her perfect hair had dislodged in the scuffle, the frizz adding to the psychotic look.

Dean tested the bonds; the leather squeaked but didn’t budge. “So, this is where you send me off to sweet dreams while you drink my blood?”

The woman sneered and leaned forward, putting her face mere inches from his. “Oh, no. My kind prefers a different kind of diet.” She inhaled deeply. “Fear, I can smell how rank you are with it.”

Dean fidgeted, craning his head away from her warm breath. “You’re not a bouquet of roses either, sweetheart.”

Gripping his arm, she ripped his sleeve open. “I’m so hungry,” she hissed, a crazed desperation filling her eyes. Her splayed hand hovered over him as blue swirls and whorls lit up along her arm.

Dean started to thrash. “Sam! Cas!” Where the hell were they?

The woman backhanded him, and a burst of copper sprang in his mouth. Her features softened, and she lowered her voice as though talking to herself. “Why can’t I get enough? A meal used to satiate for days. Now, it barely lasts for one.” She flicked her gaze over to the man on the gurney, lip curling in disgust. “I’m _famished_.”

Turning back to Dean, she brought her glowing hand down and clamped it around his arm. He gasped when the inky blue tendrils snaked over her fingers and plunged into his skin, bringing with it a sluggish haze.

The djinn reached her other hand up to stroke his hair. “But you’ll be enough, won’t you? I can smell it from across the room, the depths of what you fear. It’s almost limitless.” Her voice petered out as a blanket of fog descended over Dean. Numbness wrapped around his limbs, rocking him in a gray sea until it slowly began to recede.

Blinking, he found himself standing in a motel room, an unremarkable one, just like the hundreds he and Sam had stayed in over the years. The beds looked old and creaky, and a rickety side table three feet tall served as a “desk.” Dean’s duffel lay open on one bed, half-packed. He scratched his head. Where was Sam? Weren’t they supposed to be on a hunt? Had they finished already?

A howl sounded from outside, sending a spike of terror through him. _No, it couldn’t be…_

Low growls and chuffs echoed from behind the closed door, followed by persistent scratches.

Dean backed up a step, heart exploding into overdrive. They’d come back for him.


	2. Face Your Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should give a warning that some of this next bit might be a little graphic and yucky. Nothing the show hasn’t done. Just don’t eat ice cream while reading.

Sam had cleared the cafeteria, laboratory, and several maintenance rooms by the time he reached the opposite end of the hospital. The only thing he’d found worth noting was a ratty sleeping bag tucked inside a janitor’s closet, and there was no evidence to suggest it didn’t belong to some random homeless person.

He came to a T-intersection and peeked around the corner. Both directions were clear. He hadn’t heard anything from Dean or Cas, so maybe there was nothing here. Sam glanced at the time on his phone and sighed. It would be dark soon, and it was dim enough navigating the corridors with nothing but ambient light from distant windows. That would make the shoe factory fun later if this place turned out to be a dead end.

Pulling out his flashlight, Sam turned left hoping to meet up with Dean. He found a small wing adjacent to the main building, and paused to check it out. The sign posted next to the double steel doors was dusty and faded, but Sam made out the word “Morgue.” He doubted a djinn would set up shop in a cold room where the only place to rest were cabinet drawers or an autopsy slab, but everything needed to be checked.

The distinct odor of decay immediately tipped him off. Morgues were always sanitized and disinfected, so even though this one was dirty and dilapidated, there wouldn’t have been a lingering smell left over from the days when it was active. No, this was ripe.

Sam moved forward cautiously, fighting back the urge to gag as the putrid stench grew stronger. It wasn’t coming from the autopsy room, however. Holding his knife up, he nudged open the door across the way, and nearly wretched. A body—or what was left of one—lay in an oozing puddle on a metal slab. Globs of blood and entrails dribbled off the sides to pool on the floor like melting ice cream. From the tattered clothes and grimy beanie, Sam guessed it was the homeless person who owned that sleeping bag. He couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or woman though.

Coughing, Sam buried his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow as he scanned the rest of the room. It was empty. But this definitely had to be the djinn’s lair.

Sam paused as his gaze landed on a green-paneled combustion system. The large square door to the chamber hung open, and there was a pile of ashes on the slab. Huh, if the djinn had an in-house method for getting rid of its victims, why had it started dumping them where it was bound to draw attention? Maybe this had been the djinn’s hideout, but it’d moved…things almost looked like the monster had been interrupted in the middle of disposing of a couple bodies. Maybe the machine broke down.

Sam backed out of the crematory before his urge to vomit overwhelmed him. Pulling out his cell, he rapped his thumb across the buttons. _“Found something. Morgue, west side.”_

He waited for Dean’s response. One minute ticked by, then another. Sam’s grip tightened, but even after five minutes, the phone hadn’t vibrated with a new message. A knot formed in Sam’s stomach. _Shit_.

* * *

The hellhounds bayed at the door, throwing their weight against the wood and splitting the grain with each impact. Dean scrabbled for his duffel and pulled out a gun. This couldn’t be happening. He’d done his stint in Hell; they couldn’t take him back. He _couldn’t_ go back. No one would be there to pull him out a second time, and he’d never survive another round of endless torture. The pit would twist his soul until there was nothing left but a wretched, ruined form of existence. He’d become a demon, the epitome of every thing he’d spent his life hunting.

Dean whirled, searching for an escape route. Vicious snarls punctuated the erratic pounding of his heart, and the wood gave a violent judder. He bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door.

_No, no, no._

Blood roared in his ears, spurred by the panic coursing through him. There was a window above the sink, barely large enough for him to fit through, but dammit, he’d try. Dean climbed on top of the toilet and jiggled the lock. It was stuck.

The sound of the outer door crashing inward made him flinch so bad he nearly fell and cracked his head on the porcelain. Throwing one arm up to shield his face, Dean rammed the butt of his gun against the window, smashing it in a shower of glittering bits. He didn’t bother wiping the sill clear of shards before using the sink as a launch pad and thrusting himself into the opening. The frame pressed against his shoulders as he tried to wriggle through. Fractured glass pierced his hands and arms, but the pain was nothing compared to the terror flooding through him at the thought of those claws and fangs ripping into his flesh.

The bathroom door shook with an impact tremor, and Dean hauled himself out the rest of the way, plummeting head first toward the cement ground. Pain jarred up his shoulder and back when he hit. Biting back a cry, he staggered to his feet and fled toward the parking lot.

The Impala was sitting only ten yards away…but Sam was walking toward their motel room, arms full of shopping bags.

“Sammy!”

His brother stopped short, eyes widening as Dean came tearing around the corner.

“Hellhounds, Sam! Let’s go!”

Sam immediately dropped the paper bags on the pavement and sprinted for the car. Dean scrambled behind the wheel and fumbled to stick the key in the ignition. Only when he turned it, the Impala gave a sputtering cough.

“No, no, come on!” A chill raced up his spine as a howl split the air.

Sam clambered into the passenger seat. “Hurry, Dean!”

“I’m trying!” He gave the key another twist, and this time the car rumbled to life. “Yes!” Dean threw the Impala in gear and rammed the gas. Tires squealed, and a burst of burnt rubber and exhaust enveloped them as the car careened onto the street.

Dean glanced in the rearview mirrors. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to see whether invisible hellhounds were gaining on them. He could only hear their telltale howling that meant they hadn’t lost his scent. And never would.

“What the hell, man?” Sam exclaimed. “Why are hellhounds after us?”

Dean gritted his teeth. “After me, Sam. Looks like Hell isn’t going to let me go that easily.” He should’ve known it was too good to be true, getting out, getting his life back. Cas had saved him once, but wouldn’t be able to again.

Speaking of the damn angel, where was he? Hadn’t he been sticking closer lately? Helping on hunts? Only yesterday Cas had been working with them to track down some weird djinn. Wait, had it been yesterday? Dean didn’t remember actually killing the monster…

Oh, _shit_.

The djinn—Dean had been caught. He was lying in that damn hospital bed, strapped down like a psychiatric patient while he hallucinated. But where was his wish-fulfilled fantasy? His deepest desire seemingly granted? Why were he and Sam running for their lives from Dean’s worst nightmare?

_“My kind prefers a different kind of diet.”_

Son-of-a-bitch. This type of djinn said she feeds on fear. That explained the nightmare. Okay, well, Dean knew how to beat the djinn’s illusion. He just had to kill himself in the dream to wake up.

He jammed the gas pedal to the floor, revving the Impala with a lurch.

Sam was thrown back against his seat. “Whoa, Dean, what are you doing?”

“Sorry, Sam. You’re not really here anyway.”

Sam shot him a wide-eyed look. “What are you talking about? Slow down!”

Dean watched the rod on the tachometer climb in rpm as the Impala pushed ninety miles an hour. _Sorry, Baby._

He cranked the wheel and drove straight into a large tree.

* * *

Castiel’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t particularly like the sensation when the chunk of plastic did that, but it was better than the raucous shouting with drums and guitars Dean claimed was one of the best rock songs of all time. “Music” was a relative term, and while Castiel had grown accustomed to the eldest Winchester’s tastes, that did not mean he wanted such chords yelling at him when one of the brothers called. But Dean had programmed the ringtone, and when Castiel protested the garish noise, the hunter had merely smirked and said he could change it if he figured out how. Which, of course, Castiel couldn’t. So he had to endure the irritating vibrating instead. Or ask Sam for help when Dean wasn’t around.

He fished the phone out of his pocket and read Sam’s message.

_“Dean’s not answering. He might be in trouble.”_

Castiel tensed. Knowing the Winchesters’ propensity for putting themselves in danger, there was no “might” about it. If only he could sense his charge as he once could. But he’d hidden the brothers from all angelic eyes, including his own. He’d thought it the best way to protect them at the time, but now it was proving to be an obstacle.

Castiel spread his wings and launched into the next hall, scanning each corridor and room with the speed of flight. Though the jumps were short distances, each landing came a little heavier. Flying wasn’t effortless anymore. Since being cut off from Heaven, many things weren’t easy as they had once been. But Castiel ignored his growing weariness and pushed faster. He had to find Dean.

In the brief moment of his next landing, he heard a shriek and crash from a room three doors down. With one last leap, he appeared in a large infirmary lined with old beds. Sam stood seven feet away, wrestling with a woman as she fought to press a glowing blue hand to his face.

Angling his knife, the Winchester thrust upward, slashing the blade along the djinn’s forearm. She screeched and jerked back, momentarily releasing him. Before he could deliver another jab though, she grabbed him by the shirt and tossed him across the room. Sam thudded against the wall and crumpled onto a bed, too-long limbs flailing before landing on the floor in a heap.

Castiel strode toward the woman. She whirled at the sound of his footsteps, eyes flashing blue. He shoved his palm against her forehead, intending to push his grace into smiting her.

But nothing happened. There was no surge of energy, no flare of light. He was _cut off_.

Castiel and the djinn both stood like that for a prolonged moment, each stunned—Castiel at his failed power, the djinn at his odd attack. She recovered first, and struck him in the head.

When Dean had punched Castiel, the angel hadn’t felt it. And though the djinn had superior strength compared to the hunter, Cas still wasn’t expecting the jarring vibration that rattled his skull. It wasn’t enough to black out his vision, but it still smarted.

Dropping his angel blade from his sleeve into his hand, he slashed at the djinn. She leaped back and grabbed a metal pole, swinging it around. This time Castiel thought to throw his arm up to block. The impact made him grit his teeth, but the resounding thwack wasn’t enough to break bone—he hadn’t fallen _that_ far. He twisted his wrist to grab hold of the rod. The djinn tried to yank it back, yet even her strength couldn’t outmatch an angel’s, failing powers or no. Castiel slashed his blade toward her throat. She flung herself away at the last second, and the sword arced through air.

As the woman circled around to attack again, Castiel caught sight of Sam sneaking up behind her, silver knife raised. Castiel tossed the pole and angel blade aside with a clatter, drawing his shoulders back. The djinn sneered before launching herself at him. Castiel caught her by the arms, and they grappled, though Cas focused more on holding her in place than trying to wrestle her to the ground.

The markings along her arms began glowing indigo, and snaked down to her palms. She wrenched Castiel to the side, attempting to break his hold and grab his neck. Digging his feet in, he shook her upright, and a second later her body went rigid, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. The preternatural blue light in her eyes dimmed and she went limp. Castiel dropped her on the floor. Standing behind her, Sam looked up and met Cas’s gaze. The silver knife gleamed crimson; a few drops dribbled down to splatter on the woman’s white silk shirt.

Sam gave Castiel a nod, and then his eyes widened as they snapped to something over the angel’s shoulder. He broke into a run.

Castiel pivoted and spotted Dean lying on one of the hospital beds, not moving. He surged after Sam, who was already un-cinching two sets of restraints holding the hunter down.

The younger Winchester swore under his breath, and pointed to a blue handprint glowing on Dean’s arm. Sam shot Cas a panicked look. “He should’ve woken up—Dean’s been poisoned by a djinn before; he knows how to beat it.”

Castiel frowned as he studied the unconscious hunter’s face and the all too familiar facial tremors. “This djinn hasn’t trapped him in a wish-fulfilled fantasy.”

Sam glanced at his brother again. “What do you mean?”

“Dean’s experiencing a nightmare,” he responded. “The normal method for escaping may not work in this case, since this is a different type of djinn.” Castiel’s jaw tightened. “And I can’t heal him.”

* * *

Dean pried his eyelids open groggily. A constant, low moaning reached his ears, and when he held his breath to listen, he realized it had been him. Other sounds slowly filtered in, including a steady hiss. He forced his eyes open, squinting as a splay of green sticks separated into crisp pine needles that blocked out the sky.

Dean turned his head and winced. Several feet away, the Impala was crunched against a tree, the entire front hood wrapped around the trunk. The faint whistling was the sound of steam escaping the crushed radiator.

Son-of-a-bitch, who’d done that to his baby?

With a groan, Dean pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. What the hell happened? Sam? Where was Sam?

Dean staggered to his feet and hobbled around the back bumper. The breath stole from his lungs when he spotted Sam half-sprawled on the ground, legs still in the Impala.

“Sam?” he shouted, and dropped to his knees next to his brother. Sam was covered in small cuts streaming blood down his cheeks and chin. Pieces of glass embedded in his face glittered crimson.

“Sam!” Dean pressed two fingers to his neck, but couldn’t separate a throb from his own frantic pulse.

Sam’s chest suddenly rose with a sharp inhalation. “Mhm, Dean?” he croaked.

“Right here. Take it easy, you’ll be okay.”

“What’d you do?” he moaned, eyes still closed.

“What?” Dean blinked, and then went rigid as he remembered ramming the Impala’s gas and steering them into the tree. _He’d_ done this. But…he was trying to wake up from a nightmare.

Oh god, had he been wrong? Was this real all along? Had he just tried to kill his brother? Except, there was _no way_ they should be alive after that. One look at the busted Impala and body-sized hole in the windshield, and Dean knew he should be dead, or at the very least paralyzed. But then why hadn’t it worked? Was he still dreaming?

A howl sounded in the distance. Shit, not again.

Dean started pulling at Sam’s jacket. “Come on, man, you gotta get up.” If this were real, he’d be worried about broken bones and internal injuries, but this _had_ to be a dream. Because if it wasn’t…they were both dead. They’d never outrun the hellhounds. And if it was just a nightmare, Dean was dying anyway, being fed upon by a crazed djinn.

Sam tumbled the rest of the way out of the car, and Dean hauled him to his feet, ignoring his pained protests. Slinging one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder, Dean bowed forward and began stumbling into the woods.

The baying of the hell beasts drove spikes through his ears, and he thought his chest would explode from the force of his thundering heart. Maybe because in his physical body it was about to. He tried not to think of the mess that would be for Sam to find, probably worse than when the hounds had torn him apart for real.

Dean glanced at the Sam apparition faltering beside him. His brother’s limping was definitely slowing him down. Still, even though he wasn’t real, Dean couldn’t _not_ try to protect him. He’d never abandon Sam to the wolves in order to save his own skin. Dean let out a mental snort. Protect him, right. That’s why he just drove them both into a friggin’ tree.

Dean tripped and face planted in some bushes. Sam tottered, but caught himself, and grasped at Dean’s arms to heave him up. The bramble tangled around his legs, however, dragging him back down.

“Keep going, Sam!” Dean shoved him away. Sam had to escape. As much as being mauled by hellhounds terrified him, Dean couldn’t watch it happen to his brother. The bastards would sink their teeth into his flesh and rip him to shreds. His intestines would spill out over the ground and he’d choke on a fountain of blood. Dean almost threw up at the memory of it happening to him, but swallowed against the bile.

“Sam, run!”

His brother gripped his arm tightly. “I’m not leaving you!”

“Dammit, this is the way it’s supposed to be!”

Dean wondered if he’d go straight back to Hell, and if the angels would mount another rescue operation, now that he was the Michael Sword. Or had the angels fixed it so that he’d go to Heaven when he died? That almost seemed worse than the pit, and boy wasn’t that sayin’ something. Dammit, either way, dying was not a good option.

Dean struggled to his feet, just as a twig snapped in the underbrush ahead. He froze. No, the dogs couldn’t have surrounded them already.

Two amber orbs flashed between the branches before blinking out. A shadow moved among the foliage, too amorphous and vague to get a good look at. Wait a second, since when were hellhounds visible?

“Dean.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, and tumbled into the bushes again. Slapping sprigs out of his face, Dean looked up, jaw going slack. “Cas?”

Castiel tilted his head at the Sam apparition, and then swept his gaze around the forest. His brows knitted together when a hellhound bayed in the distance. “Dean, we have to find a way to break the dream.”

He staggered to his feet. “So, it’s really you? In my head?”

“Yes.” Castiel stepped closer. “You have to wake up, before the djinn’s poison kills you.”

“No kidding, but this ain’t a normal djinn. Psycho bitch said her kind feeds on fear, so welcome to Hellhounds on Parade.”

Cas squinted before shaking his head. “Sam killed her, so we can’t force her to undo the dream universe.” His eyes drifted to consider the Dream Sam again, who was shifting his weight nervously.

“Dean, we have to go,” he pleaded.

Dean ran both hands over his hair, hating the slight tremor in his fingers. Running wasn’t working. _Dammit, think!_

A thought niggled the back of his mind, and he tensed. “Cas, I beat a djinn’s poison before by killing myself. I already tried that here and it didn’t work, but…by killing myself, I was letting go of my fulfilled wish, of being with my mom again. So…” He swallowed hard. “I have to let go of my fear, don’t I?”

Which meant what? Stop fighting? Stand back and let the hellhounds tear him and Sam to shreds? _That_ was not in Dean’s nature. And who was to say he still wouldn’t die in the process?

Cas studied Dean, eyes pinched with concern and understanding. “That makes sense. You’ll have to try it.”

Dean blanched and took a step back, regretting even suggesting it. “I don’t know if I can, Cas.” The howls and yips were drawing closer, igniting the urge to run again.

“Dean, _please_ ,” Sam begged, sending a fresh burst of panic through him.

“You’re dying, Dean.” Castiel glanced over his shoulder toward the source of the echoing snarls, and then stepped closer to Dean. “I know how hard this is for you. But I will stay by your side.”

Dean stared back at Cas, not caring about the sudden lack of personal space. He would die if he didn’t do this, and Sam—the real Sam—was waiting for him back in the real world. Dean couldn’t let him down.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face the oncoming wolves. His heart jackhammered in his chest, and the terror threatened to white out his vision, but Dean stood his ground. He could do this.

Castiel turned to look at something behind Dean, a frown tightening the angel’s mouth. So it’d be a rear assault as well. No more running. No more escape. A scattering of leaves on the rise ahead and swishing of branches heralded the pack’s arrival. Dean took a deep breath and forced his arms to go slack. Cas’s hand settled on his shoulder a moment before the snarling hounds descended on him.


	3. An Unwanted Passenger

Dean bolted upright, gasping for air. Hands on each shoulder steadied him, and at first he struggled, until a familiar, reassuring voice gradually filtered through the roaring in his ears.

“Easy, Dean, you’re okay.”

His vision focused to meet Sam’s concerned eyes. Dean forced himself to take a breath. Sam was safe. It hadn’t been real. The hellhounds weren’t after him. They were safe.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, standing to his right.

“Yeah…” Dean cleared his throat when his voice came out slightly shaky. “I’m good.” He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed. He’d be glad to get out of this place.

“What happened?” Sam asked. “Cas said you were having a nightmare, but I thought djinn were supposed to trap you in a pleasant dream.”

Dean rubbed his arm where the bitch had infused her poison; the blue handprint was gone. “Yeah, so we can call this bastard off-shoot a fear djinn. Feeds on fear while sticking you in your worst nightmare. Way out is to let go and face it.”

His brother’s brows lifted. “Wow, okay.” Sam didn’t ask what Dean’s greatest fear had been, for which he was grateful. He didn’t like showing weakness, and it was bad enough Cas had seen him in the midst of a panic attack, had to practically hold Dean’s hand. And the hellhounds hadn’t even been _real_.

Dean noticed Cas was still staring at him with that unwavering, penetrating gaze. He hated the feeling that the angel could see right through him, down to the deepest, darkest parts he tried to bury under sex and alcohol.

“ _Cas_ , stop staring,” he griped, and rolled his shoulders as though to slough off the discomfort. At least Cas wasn’t like Sam, wouldn’t pressure Dean into talking about what he’d just experienced. He’d rather forget the whole thing.

Castiel finally looked away, scanning the room, and Dean nodded to Sam. “Let’s get out of here.”

They passed the djinn’s body on their way out, sightless eyes staring at the wall. Good riddance.

Dean breathed deeply of the night air once they stepped outside. At the sight of the Impala in one piece, he almost broke into a run to embrace the hood and kiss her. The image of his baby broken and smashed around that tree would probably haunt him more than the hounds would. Still, he didn’t even speed on the drive back to the motel.

Dean could feel his brother’s gaze studying him carefully, and was getting ready to snap at him when Sam finally twisted around to face Cas in the backseat. He’d better not ask the angel what Castiel had seen in Dean’s dream…and Cas had better not answer. Except what Sam actually said put all those self-absorbed thoughts from Dean’s mind.

“Cas, um, what happened with the djinn? You tried to smite it, right? But nothing happened?”

Dean shot a startled glance at the angel through the rearview mirror. Cas’s mouth was pressed in a grim line, and he looked away to gaze out the window. Dean lifted his brows at Sam in a question. Apparently he’d missed some stuff while he’d been in dreamland.

Sam shrugged his brows—he had a clue, but wanted Cas to confirm it. Only Cas remained silent.

“So, no smiting mojo?” Dean asked carefully.

It was a long moment before Castiel responded, and his voice was so low Dean barely heard him. “No.”

He and Sam exchanged a concerned look. Another thing to add to the “Powers-Cas-no-longer-had” list. This “slowly falling” shit just kept throwing crap at the angel. Cas already thought he was useless, that he was only important to Dean and Sam as a weapon against Lucifer. Which was _not_ true. Dean thought they’d finally gotten through to him about that too, and now here was another shitty reminder that Cas wasn’t what he used to be.

Dean plastered on a grin. “Well, you two obviously didn’t need it, since the bitch is dead.”

Cas didn’t say anything. The guy could brood as well as Dean, which was something the hunter understood well, so he fell silent for the rest of the drive.

When they arrived back at the motel, Cas, surprisingly, didn’t flap off. He didn’t often stay the night, as he seemed to sense that it was awkward for Sam and Dean. At least, it had been the first couple times, but they’d gotten used to it. Besides, Cas was the third member of their family; just because he didn’t sleep didn’t mean the Winchesters were going to kick him out at night. Especially after how long it’d taken to convince the angel they wanted him around.

“You parkin’ it here for the night, Cas?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Parking what?”

He held back a smirk. “Yourself, Cas. You staying?”

“Yes…if that’s alright.” He frowned, glancing around the room almost self-consciously.

“‘Course it is,” Dean replied casually. “Watch some TV if you want, just keep the volume down.” He grabbed the remote off the nightstand and tossed it to the angel, who snapped his hand up to catch it a second before it struck him in the face. See, the guy still had angel reflexes.

When Sam finished in the bathroom, Dean took his turn. Though irrational, he wanted to shower off the memory of that djinn’s touch and the stink of fear her poison had left on him. Sam was already conked out when Dean re-emerged to stagger toward the second bed. He plopped face first on top of the covers with a tired moan. Waving his hand around until it knocked against the light switch, he flipped the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. If Cas had turned on the television, he didn’t even notice as he was quickly dragged into sleep.

* * *

Castiel sat at the dinette table, shrouded in shadows. Moonlight seeped through the motel blinds, bathing the space in front of him in a soft incandescence. The silence was deafening. It was in the quiet, isolated moments like these where Castiel felt the pang of loss more poignantly. He missed the musical choir of angel voices that used to always be with him, an orchestra of his brothers and sisters. Now he was cut off. Alone.

He could have turned on the television to fill the void. In fact, that was one of the things he’d come to appreciate about the plastic box, and some of the moving pictures it held were fascinating. But he had more important things to watch tonight. Namely, his charge’s dreams.

Castiel had sensed something strange in the nightmare the djinn had trapped Dean in, another presence. It had been faint, almost as though lurking on the edge of the hunter’s mind. But it had been there. And it didn’t belong.

So until Castiel could figure out what it was—and if it would return—he had no intention of leaving the Winchesters.

In that, he was not completely alone. Beyond his understanding, Sam and Dean had taken him in. It didn’t make sense—he was an angel, a fallen one at that. His own family had orders to kill him on sight, and yet he’d found sanctuary…and a new home…with the Winchesters. And that’s what Sam and Dean had called him—family. _Brother_.

They could never understand the depths of what that declaration meant to him, one who had lived centuries surrounded by siblings. Yet, the Winchesters’ definition of the concept went far beyond anything the angels ever had for each other—loyalty, forgiveness, unconditional love. That was what two human boys had given Castiel that he had never in his long existence had before.

Not even from his father… His hand slipped into his coat pocket to finger Dean’s amulet. With each failed lead in his search for God, Castiel felt his drive lessening. Why was his father hiding? What could possibly be keeping him away?

Castiel had been a good soldier; he’d followed his father’s commands. And when he’d rebelled and been destroyed, God had resurrected him. But had it been out of love and forgiveness? Or was it punishment? Would Castiel be forced to watch the fruits of his disobedience, to watch the world end and the Winchester brothers he cared so deeply for destroy each other?

He curled his fist around the amulet. He would not nurse such thoughts tonight, not when there was work to be done. And as long as there was evil to fight, Castiel had his mission: protect the Winchesters.

His shoulders stiffened at a small grunt that sounded from the far bed. A moment later, the figure shifted, followed by another distressed sound. Castiel rose silently and went to stand over Dean. The hunter’s eyes were squeezed tight, head turning side to side in search of an escape he’d never find.

Castiel wished he could erase Dean’s nightmares of Hell for good. He cocked his head, brow furrowing. There it was again, that whisper…

Reaching out, he pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead. A shadow flitted across his mind’s eye. Cas frowned; he was afraid of that. He closed his eyes and entered Dean’s sleep.

Castiel blinked as he found himself in a large, concrete room. Black, greasy unguent splattered the floor and walls, along with varying shades of blood, from bright fresh spatter, to dried rusted splotches. Trays lined the side walls, all bearing soiled torture devices—knives, hooks, serrated blades, and other ghastly accoutrements.

In the back corner, strapped to a rack, lay Dean. Blood, mixed with sweat and tears, poured down his face and exposed chest in diluted, pinkish streams. Alastair stood over him, tutting about Dean’s refusal to scream. The demon inserted a meathook between the hunter’s ribs and twisted. Dean gritted his teeth against a cry of pain.

Castiel clenched a fist. It wasn’t enough that the demon was dead; he still haunted Dean. And whether the nightmare was him under or holding the knife, the horror was the same. Castiel flicked his wrist, and the Alastair apparition vanished in a wisp of smoke.

A quiet sob wracked Dean’s body, and Castiel’s heart constricted when he wasn’t able to fully banish the dream. Another thing he was no longer good for. He couldn’t smite demons in the real world, nor, it seemed, could he when they were mere figments. At least he’d been able to give Dean a respite from the torture.

Now, there was the other issue…

Castiel turned slowly in a circle, scanning the darkened corners of the dungeon. The edges undulated and ebbed, as though the shadows were living, breathing entities, but they were just phantoms lining the border of Dean’s mind.

However, there _was_ something alive moving among them. Castiel saw a flash of amber eyes with slitted pupils, creeping low to the ground. A paw stepped between shadows before melting into them once more. Castiel couldn’t make out the creature’s shape, or determine what it was, but he had no intention of letting it stay long enough to find out.

“Leave,” he commanded.

With a chittering sound, the creature scurried to the corner. A glint of metallic along its back flashed as it darted underneath a cart of bloodied knives.

Castiel took a threatening step toward it, letting loose a subtle wave of grace. It flared in the dark dungeon, filling it with the glow of a radiant star, and the creature turned with a hiss, vanishing before Castiel could get a good look at it. The effect of his grace had also wiped some of the nightmare away, so that the rack, torture implements, and blood was gone. Dean now sat in a heap on the cold, stone floor.

Castiel swayed slightly. He hadn’t even used that much grace, yet he felt tired. At least the creature was gone. But would it stay away?

He turned to leave when a small voice rose from the huddled hunter.

“Cas?”

“Rest, Dean,” he said. With one last push of grace that perhaps he shouldn’t have used, Castiel replaced the dingy chamber with a lake and small wooden dock. An amber haze tinted the tranquil dream, and Dean’s features smoothed as Cas slipped out.

* * *

If possible, Dean felt even more groggy when he finally woke the next morning. His eyelids slowly pried open, and a moan escaped his lips before he could stop it. Ugh, no fair getting a hangover when he hadn’t even binged on alcohol the night before.

Shapeless smudges blurred his vision, and it took several blinks before they coalesced into Sam sitting on the bed across from him, arms folded across his lap as he watched Dean wake. Jeez, now Sam was picking up _Cas’s_ bad habits.

“Hey, you okay?” his brother asked with a trace of concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean sat up, noting that Sam was not only already dressed, but looking wide awake. In fact, the light seeping through the curtains was a tad too bright. He glanced at the bedside clock. The hell, it was almost 9:00am.

“Why’d you let me sleep so long?” he growled.

Sam frowned. “Cas said you needed it. And I thought that after the djinn attack, maybe you did.”

Dean flicked his gaze toward the angel, who was sitting at the dinette table as though he hadn’t moved at all since last night. “I don’t need coddling,” he groused, and rubbed his face vigorously to get the blood flowing. What he needed was coffee. Pushing to his feet, he went to pour a cup from the pot Sam had already made.

“You pointed out to me once that humans require a certain amount of sleep,” Cas said.

“ _Four_ hours.” Dean held up the equivalent number of fingers to emphasize his point. “Sleeping in is a luxury we don’t need to be wasting our time on.”

“Well, I disagree. Especially since we have a problem.”

Dean suppressed a groan. Of course they did. “ _Cas_ , if there’s a problem, then sleeping late is the last thing I should be doing.”

“Since the issue relates to your dreams, I say the opposite.”

Dean’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?” What the hell did Cas mean his dreams were a problem? Had Dean been talking in his sleep? Oh shit, were the nightmares getting bad enough that Cas and Sam noticed? Was that why they were tiptoeing around him this morning?

Except, he didn’t remember having the usual nightmares last night. Or, he had started down that road, but it hadn’t gotten very far…his sleep had been almost downright restful, in terms of the dreams. He still felt like crap though.

“There was something else in the hospital besides the djinn,” Castiel explained. “And it seems to have fixated on Dean.”

He stiffened. “What are you talking about? That was a clean kill and there were no signs of anything else.”

“No signs of anything on the physical plane,” Cas said. “A strange creature was in your dreams last night. I chased it away, but I’m afraid it will return.”

A shiver ran down Dean’s spine, and he took a long drag of bitter coffee to hide it. “You dream stalking me again, Cas?”

Castiel tilted his head. “I was watching for the creature. I’d sensed it in the djinn’s nightmare and was afraid it would follow you. Which it has.”

“So what is it and what does it want?” Sam spoke up, looking as worried as Dean felt.

“I don’t know; I didn’t get a good look at it.”

Dean took another gulp of coffee. Nightmares were bad enough, but now he had some weird monster poking around in his head? “Maybe you scared it off for good.”

Cas glanced away briefly, consternation flickering across his face. “I doubt that.”

“Okay.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Can you give us anything else to go on so we can research this thing, figure out how to keep it away?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed, gaze drifting down in thought. “I saw what might be described as feline features.”

Sam surged off the bed and grabbed his laptop. Settling at the table across from Cas, he started the computer up. “Dean, give Cas dad’s journal; maybe he’ll find something.”

“Yeah, okay.” He tried to keep a lid on how unnerved he felt. First he’d gotten poisoned by a djinn that forced him to live his greatest fear, and now he’d picked up some kind of nightmare monster like a tick? Just awesome.

Dean handed John’s journal to Cas, and then retrieved their second laptop so he could help Sam scour the Internet for dream creature listings. Unfortunately, his initial search brought up way too many results. Dream interpretations, spirit guides, various forms of nightmares…the list went on. This would take a while.

He probably shouldn’t have settled on the bed with the computer in his lap, but there wasn’t room at the table. After getting through only two entries, Dean’s vision started to blur, and his eyelids grew heavy. He jerked his head up with a start, blinking rapidly to clear the brain fog. But the computer screen blurred again, and his chin started dropping toward his chest.

In the next moment, Dean was standing in an all-too-familiar forest with the sound of hellhounds baying in the distance.

_Crap, not this again._

At least Sam wasn’t there this time.

A rustle of leaves sounded behind him, and he whirled. Two amber eyes, hunkered close to the ground, watched him with eerie intensity. That wasn’t a hellhound…

Wait, Dean had a vague recollection of seeing those eyes before, in the djinn’s dream. So a monster really was stalking his mind. Fantastic.

Okay, well, he’d beat the dream once before; he just had to do it again. Let go and face his fear.

A howl made his blood run cold. Easier said than done, and Cas wasn’t there to have his back this time. Dean took several deep breaths. He could do this.

Dried underbrush crinkled to his right, and he whipped his head toward the sound. Steaming breath puffed in the air from an invisible source, followed by a snarl. The nerve endings in Dean’s brain fired with panic, urging him to run, but he refused to let some creepy dream parasite get the better of him.

He watched the leaves on the ground flutter and the soil depress in the shape of a paw print as the hound stalked closer.

_It’s not real. It can’t hurt you._

The beast growled, wafting hot, putrid breath into Dean’s face. His fists clenched so hard his fingernails dug painfully into the flesh of his palms. _Come on…_ He was facing his fear; why wasn’t it working?

The hellhound barked, and Dean instinctively recoiled a second before a swish disturbed the air. Two claws grazed down his arm with a rending of fabric and tissue. He cried out and scrabbled back, clutching his arm against the searing pain. Blood welled up between his fingers.

Okay, screw that. Obviously, facing his fear wasn’t going to work this time.

The hound gnashed its teeth. Dean aimed a kick at where the hot breaths were billowing, and his boot collided with a jaw. The dog’s fangs clacked together and it let out a wounded yelp.

Dean turned and ran.


	4. When Dreams Bite Back

Castiel was having no luck finding anything in John Winchester’s journal. The man had seen a lot in his time as a hunter, but not so much of the otherworldly planes. Even Castiel had little experience with this kind of creature, as angels didn’t dream.

He jerked to attention at a choked sound coming from the bed. Dean’s chin was slumped against his chest, facial muscles twitching in agitation. Castiel surged to his feet. He should have been paying more attention. He’d thought since Dean had rested the night before, he would stay awake throughout the day.

Sam looked up sharply, then over at Dean. He bolted from his chair. “What? Is it back?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, jaw clenching as he probed with his senses. And apparently it hadn’t waited for Dean to fall asleep naturally, but had pulled him under.

Sam reached Dean’s bedside and began slapping his brother’s cheek. “Dean, wake up!”

Dean’s head lolled back to thunk against the headboard. Tremors ran through his limbs, and he tried to turn away with a desperate moan.

Sam grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. “Dean!” He shot Cas a frantic look. “Can you chase it off again?”

Castiel closed his eyes in response. In the next second, he had entered the hunter’s mind. The forest he now stood in was the same from the djinn’s induced dream, except the trees seemed to be pressed closer together, crooked branches stretching out like bony fingers to claw and snare. A hellhound barked in the distance.

“Dean!” Castiel turned in a circle. There was something wrong here; the edges of the dream construct weren’t wispy with fluctuations of a subconscious mind. They were firm. Entrapping.

A gurgling sound came from behind and Castiel spun. The creature he’d only glimpsed before was in the open now, a mutant conflagration of various species. It had a feline frame with stripes down its muscular legs and brawny tail, but a reptilian head with sharp tusks protruding from its zygomatic arches. The body was covered in a mane of quills that swished like aluminum feathers as it moved. It stood around three feet tall, and looked to weigh about eighty pounds.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. The beast was goring its tusks into the ground and churning up a patch of blood-soaked soil. Dean’s blood? Then with the snap of its jaws, the creature began gobbling up the dirt. At first it chewed, and then the beast started making a sucking sound, causing pieces of the earth to peel up like paper. A nearby tree bent and wobbled as though flattened. The monster tipped its head back, inhaling a huge chunk of rock and grass, and even the entire tree whooshed into its maw as it stripped the dream.

Castiel flared his grace, igniting the gray woods in white light. The chimera jerked back and let out a spitting hiss. Its mouthful of earth puddled on the ground at its feet, slowly solidifying again. Castiel pushed a little more grace, though it wasn’t as bright as the initial burst. A chittering sound vibrated in the creature’s throat, and it didn’t turn tail and flee. It’d seen his bluff.

Castiel dropped his angel blade from his sleeve into his hand and sidestepped to circle the beast. With a low growl, it mirrored his movements. Castiel lunged, slicing his sword in a horizontal arc. The creature dodged and danced away, but circled back around. Castiel adjusted his grip on the blade.

This time the creature struck, lashing out with the speed of a cobra. Castiel held his ground and thrust. The beast wrenched its head back at the last moment, and the tip of the blade only grazed its cheek under the eye. With a roar of rage, the creature cracked its tail like a whip, catching Cas’s legs and knocking them out from under him.

He twisted mid-fall to land on his back and keep his sword angled up in defense. Jaws snapped close to his head and he jabbed instinctively. He felt a slight squish as metal penetrated soft tissue, and the beast howled. Jerking back, it finally whipped around and ran off, melting into gray fog.

Castiel pushed himself off the ground. With the creature’s influence removed, the walls of Dean’s mind began to bend and refract as he was called to wakefulness. Castiel gave a feeble push and returned to the real world. His eyes opened to find Sam leaning over his brother, still slapping Dean’s cheek.

“Dammit, Dean, come on!”

Dean let out a low moan, but at last his eyelids fluttered open. “Sam?” Blinking blearily, he sat up straighter. “Crap, guess I fell asleep?”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t wake you.” Sam looked at Cas. “Did you see it this time?”

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s a dream eater.”

* * *

“A dream eater?” Sam repeated. “What is that?” Aside from what the name implied, was it evil? And what did they do about it?

Castiel took a step, and paused to brace one hand against the wall. Sam frowned.

“It feeds on dreams.” The angel’s brows furrowed. “This one is strong. It was able to trap Dean in his sleep, which was why you couldn’t wake him.”

Dean cleared his throat nervously. “But you chased it off again, right? I’m not still in some crazy dream…” He glanced around the room as though a hellhound might jump out of the closet.

“You’re awake,” Sam reassured, but Dean didn’t seem convinced. “Want me to pinch you?”

Dean snorted. “That wouldn’t actually mean anything. I got pretty sliced up in the dream…” His eyes darkened with some haunted memory, and he rubbed his arm. “Damn, it hurt like a bitch. Even felt real…” He looked down as though to make sure he was in one piece, and, seemingly satisfied, launched off the bed.

Sam backed up to sit on the opposite mattress, stomach tightening with worry as Dean paced in agitation. “Cas, is this thing dangerous? I mean, can it hurt Dean in a dream?”

Cas stared at the window in thought. “I’m not sure. Its power was remarkably strong for its kind.”

“Think it was working with the djinn? Teaming up or something?” Maybe it was coming after them for revenge.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Dean put in, finally coming to a standstill. “Before the bitch dosed me, she was spouting some crazy talk about how she couldn’t get enough to eat, like she was starving.”

“Huh.” Sam crossed his arms. “Okay, so maybe this thing was eating the nightmares before the djinn could, stealing her food source right out from under her.” That explained why the case had caught their attention—a starving djinn would’ve been forced to kill more frequently, and wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to cover her tracks. Sam thought back to the crematory setup in the old hospital, now understanding why the djinn had stopped using it. She’d been half out of her mind when he’d confronted her.

“If that’s the case,” Castiel said gravely. “The creature may have developed an insatiable thirst for such nightmares. And it learned from the djinn that it no longer had to search out a meal, it could create one.” His eyes crinkled. “Dean’s dreams seem to entice it.”

Dean snorted. “Awesome. And by the way, I faced my fear this time, but it didn’t break the illusion.”

“That was for a djinn,” Sam said.

His brother grunted. “Can’t the monsters get together and decide on one set of rules to play by?”

Sam gave him an eye roll as he walked back to his laptop and typed in a search for dream eater. “Okay, here’s something called a ‘baku.’ It’s from Japanese mythology and is said to devour dreams.” Only part of the description matched the cat-like features Cas had described, but there were never one hundred percent accuracies in the lore. Sam read further, and then quirked a brow in confusion. “According to legend, this thing is supposed to consume nightmares to give people a restful sleep.”

“Wait,” Dean said. “If this thing’s going to eat up all my dreams, that can be a good thing, right?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, no more nightmares of Hell.”

Sam pursed his lips sympathetically. “I suppose…”

Cas turned to look at Dean, mouth set in a pensive line. “I know you’d rather live without the nightmares, Dean, and I would let the creature take them from you if I thought it would do you no harm. But this baku is obviously gluttonous, and it won’t stop once it’s consumed your nightmares. It will continue on to devour your good dreams as well, your hopes and ambitions, until you are nothing but a hollow shell.”

Sam stiffened. _Shit_.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Find a way to ward against it, or banish it,” Castiel replied.

“Can Dean even go to sleep, or does he have to stay awake until we fix this?”

Castiel glanced away again. “I can guard his dreams until we find a resolution.”

Dean raised a hand. “Uh, that’s not gonna happen. No offense, Cas, but I don’t need two bodies poking around in my head.”

Sam smirked. “You just don’t want him witnessing your _other_ dreams.” Like the “den of iniquity” his brother no doubt fantasized about sometimes.

Cas alternated a perplexed look between them. “I’ve visited your dreams before, Dean.”

“Yeah, still, we’re gonna gank this thing before bed. So get on that research, Sammy.” Dean walked over to put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Sam turned back to his computer and refined the search terms for how to get rid of a baku. Unfortunately, most of the lore detailed how to _summon_ it. How were they supposed to banish an incorporeal monster? It wasn’t like a ghost; there was no physical counterpart to salt and burn.

They spent the rest of the day researching. Dean even tried teaching Cas how to use the computer, which was an entertaining distraction. But as the hours wore on, the baku’s pull seemed to be getting stronger. Dean talked less, and started leaning back in his chair and yawning every ten minutes. He’d already gone through four cups of coffee.

Sam got up to grab his wallet and pulled out one of the credit cards, which he handed to Cas. The angel gave it his customary head tilt.

“There’s a market five blocks south from here. Buy a couple packs of Red Bull.”

Cas cocked a brow in confusion. “You want to keep Dean awake with raw beef?”

Sam almost laughed. “They’re energy drinks, Cas.”

“Oh.” He glanced at the credit card again.

“Just pick up two six-packs.” That should get Dean through the night…and hopefully not give him tachycardia.

Cas wavered for a moment, but then disappeared with a swish of wings. Dean had started nodding off during the exchange, and Sam kicked his leg. He jerked up with a garbled snort.

“I’m awake.”

“Yeah, right. I sent Cas for some energy drinks.”

Dean blinked and swept his gaze around the room. “Alone?”

Sam sat back down in front of his laptop. “Well, I need to continue researching, and I don’t trust you not to fall asleep along the way, so, yeah.” It was a simple errand, which hopefully Cas could handle. Plus, his ability to pop in and out would make the trip quicker, which they needed since Dean seemed to be fading fast. His eyelids were drooping again, dammit.

“Hey.” Sam kicked him again.

Dean glowered and stood up. “I’m not falling asleep.” He began to pace, and Sam tried to focus on the web results, but he kept glancing up to make sure Dean hadn’t gone to sit on the bed. His brother was walking the length of the room, rubbing his face with both hands and shaking his head.

“Try jumping jacks,” Sam said.

Dean scowled, but after a minute, a staccato thumping started up.

Cas returned a few minutes later, plastic shopping bag in hand. He frowned at Dean’s slagging exercise.

“About time,” Dean panted, and snatched the bag. He dug out a can of Red Bull, popped the lid with a fizzle, and chugged it down.

Cas eyed him worriedly. “Does that help?”

Dean clapped his shoulder. “Yep, hits the spot. Thanks.”

The three of them returned to research, but by the time midnight rolled around, they still hadn’t found anything.

Sam’s cheeks stretched tautly with a massive yawn.He blinked several times; the words on his computer screen were getting blurry.

“Sam, go to bed,” Dean said.

“No, I’m okay.”

Dean snorted. “You yawning every two minutes is making _me_ more tired. Just get some sleep.”

Sam frowned. “Are you sure?”

Dean shrugged and took a sip from his third can of Red Bull. “Hey, one of us might as well.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, and made eye contact with Cas. _You’ll watch over him?_

Castiel gave a subtle nod.

With a sigh, Sam went over and climbed on top of the bed. He felt guilty that he could get some sleep when Dean couldn’t, but he had to acknowledge that at least one of them needed to be functioning on full strength if they were going to solve this. In less than five minutes, he was out like a light.

* * *

Castiel glanced up from the laptop screen as Dean rubbed his face vigorously. “You’re tired.”

“Mr. Obvious,” Dean grumbled, and then shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just pissed that this thing’s got its hooks in me, and I can’t even see it to fight it.”

Castiel dropped his gaze to the floor. He could understand Dean’s position all too well—and it irked him. Angels shouldn’t feel helpless. Castiel should have been able to banish the creature, or at the very least strike the fear of God into it so it would never return, yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t even offer the Winchesters guidance on how best to deal with a rogue baku. The only thing he’d been able to do successfully that day was go grocery shopping and learn how to use a computer. Hardly useful things that Sam or Dean couldn’t easily do for themselves.

“What about you, man, you tired?”

Castiel looked up sharply. “Angels don’t need sleep, Dean.”

The hunter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I asked if you were tired. No offense, Cas, but you’re looking a little worn these days.”

Castiel gritted his teeth. Yes, he seemed to be falling just a smidgen faster every day. And now Sam and Dean had noticed. First he couldn’t smite the djinn, and now he _was_ tired. Not enough to need human sleep, but his shoulders slouched forward more than normal, and he didn’t move with lightning reflexes anymore. He honestly didn’t know how much of himself he could still call an angel. Angels weren’t thwarted by a lowly djinn; angels didn’t have to resort to physical punches when a touch and flare of grace would do…angels were mighty soldiers of God.

“Cas?” Dean asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

“I’m fine,” he replied, perhaps a little too gruffly.

Dean sighed in exasperation. “Okay, I’m about to collapse here, so we’ll shelve the ‘you’re not fine’ talk until this current problem is fixed.”

Castiel frowned, but set aside Dean’s assumption that they needed to talk at all, and focused on what was important—the baku. “Shall I get you another red cow?”

Dean let out a stifled chortle. “Red Bull. And no. They’re not helping anymore.” He hesitated. “I feel like something’s trying to tug me under.” He glanced over at Sam’s sleeping form, distress tightening his features. “I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”

Cas’s brows knit together. The baku’s pull must have been getting quite strong. “I understand. You can sleep, Dean. I won’t let the baku harm you.”

“Guess I don’t have much of a choice.” He stood and stretched, popping several vertebrae. “So all you have to do is chase it off and I can get some shut-eye, then start the cycle all over again tomorrow, huh?”

Castiel didn’t answer. The creature had not scared easily the last time. But he had managed to wound it, so perhaps he could kill the baku when it came for Dean’s dream tonight. He might not have the power of full grace at his call, but he was still a warrior.

Dean seemed too tired to even notice Castiel hadn’t answered him, and had already started shuffling toward the bed. “Night, Cas. See you…in my head, I guess.” The last words came out mumbled as Dean collapsed, and less than a minute later, Castiel heard the hunter’s steady breathing.

He stood and walked over to gaze down at the sleeping man. Whispers of malignant intent susurrated over his senses. Castiel’s jaw clenched, and in the blink of closing and opening his eyes, he found himself standing in the woods again. Dean was nowhere in sight. He summoned his angel bladeand cast his senses out for the baku. It was close; Castiel could feel its gluttonous appetite as it attempted to gorge itself on the hunter’s nightmares. Well, not tonight. And not ever again.

Castiel strode through the thicket until he came upon the spiked creature. It paused in its munching to glower at him. A bright red scar carved a shallow fissure down one side of its face, and its slitted pupils dilated slightly as it sniffed the air.

Castiel squared his shoulders. “You’re not taking him.”

The baku’s eyes narrowed, and quills along its back began to shiver as a chittering sound warbled in its throat. Castiel lifted his blade, but was distracted by a rustle of bushes to his right. A hellhound leaped out of nowhere, and Castiel slashed instinctively. His blade sliced the beast’s throat in one clean arc, and it fell with a strangled yelp to thud and gurgle on the ground.

Castiel whirled back around toward the baku, and jolted in surprise as he found it directly in front of him. Before he could brandish his blade, the chimera reared up on its hindquarters and clapped its forelegs around his shoulders. The pointed tusks protruded past his face, hemming him in as the tail snapped like a whip around his legs.

A concussive force hit Castiel in the center of his chest, and his head rocked from the whoomp. The scenery of the dream contorted at ninety-degree angles as though Dean’s mind were imploding in on itself, sending a spike of terror through Castiel. He tried to stretch his grace, to put the images back together, but darkness crashed down on him. A vicious hiss slithered in his ear before everything was snuffed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditionally, the baku is a chimera type creature with the legs of a tiger, body of a bear, rhinoceros eyes, and an elephant’s nose. But the trunk makes it less creepy for me, so I changed it. ;)


	5. Angels Don't Dream

Dean felt as though he were resting on one of those coin-operated, vibrating beds. It was pleasant, and he let himself drift, until the shaking became more violent, insistently tugging him out of his brain fog. He pried his eyelids open and blinked as his brother’s wide-eyed face solidified mere inches from his own. He jerked away, knocking his skull against the headboard and accidentally hitting Sam under the chin with a flailing arm. Both brothers let out startled yelps and rocked away from each other.

“Ow.” Dean rubbed the back of his head. “What the hell, Sam.”

Sam shook off the blow and gripped Dean’s arm again, digging his fingers into the crook of his elbow. “Dean! Are you okay?”

He wrenched out of Sam’s clingy grasp. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were supposed to stay awake!”

“Well, I couldn’t anymore. Besides, Cas was gonna chase off the monster if it made another appearance.” Actually, he didn’t remember having any nightmares, so Cas must have gotten rid of it pretty quick. Dean even felt somewhat rested.

Sam’s expression pinched in distress. “Cas is unconscious.”

Dean stiffened. “What?”

Sam stood from the bed and gestured helplessly to the floor. Dean flipped over to the edge and gazed down at Castiel sprawled on the carpet, apparently out cold.

“Shit.” Dean scrambled to the foot of the bed and dropped down next to Cas’s head. He shook the angel’s shoulder, but got no response.

“I couldn’t wake him.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you were both gone, but if you’re awake, then…”

“The baku must’ve gotten him,” Dean finished. _Son-of-a-bitch_. That was not supposed to happen.

Sam looked at a loss. “But angels don’t sleep, so they don’t dream either, right?”

Both of them glanced at Cas, having no answer.

Dean got to his feet. “Let’s get him off the floor.” He gripped Cas under the arms while Sam grabbed his legs, and they hefted him onto the bed. Damn, he was heavy.

“Now what?” Dean asked. “Think he’ll just snap out of it?”

Sam’s shoulders slumped in a distinct lack of confidence. “I don’t know, Dean. Cas isn’t at full power; what if he can’t fight off the baku?”

Dean gritted his teeth. He knew Cas wasn’t at the top of his game lately. He should have pressed the angel further last night, but he’d been so tired, and he was still stubbornly clinging to the belief that Cas wasn’t breakable. Why hadn’t he learned by now?

“Dammit, Cas,” he muttered. Had the angel known it was dangerous for him to take on the baku? Even if he had, he wouldn’t have admitted it to the Winchesters. Dean suppressed a sigh; Cas was picking up too many bad habits from them.

Sam strode to his computer. “I’ll get back to searching for a banishing ritual. And, Dean, when this is over, we need to talk about Cas falling.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Cas falling was Dean’s fault, and yeah, the angel didn’t blame him, but that didn’t change the fact that Cas had rebelled because Dean had _asked_ him to. He just hadn’t known the full implications of what would come after.

“It’s not like we know how to fix it,” he added bitterly.

“But we can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong.” Sam shook his head. “It’s my fault too; I keep putting it off, telling myself we’ll deal with it after the current crisis. But, Dean, we’re _always_ in the middle of a crisis. Who knows how long it’ll take to stop the Apocalypse, if we even can.”

“Sam—”

His brother held up a hand. “I’m not saying it’s hopeless. My point is if we wait until the world isn’t ending to figure things out with Cas, it might be too late for him.”

Dean gritted his teeth. Sam was right, of course. Cas wasn’t good at accepting limitations. He’d just keep pushing himself, especially when it came to protecting Dean and Sam. The guy had a self-sacrificing complex as bad as the lot of them. But they couldn’t lose him. So, yeah, when this was over, the Winchesters needed to have a talk with the angel—which he was most definitely not going to like.

Dean glanced back at Castiel’s still form. In sleep, his expression was one Dean never saw—relaxed, young…vulnerable. But if angels didn’t dream, and the baku had nothing to eat, why wasn’t Cas waking up?

* * *

Castiel stood on the bank of a tenebrous river. Jet-black waves lapped sluggishly inches from his feet, rippling like oil. To his right and left, great crags framed the horizon, their towering tops veiled in thick, cobweb tendrils of gray clouds that spread out into a churning sky above. A spindly forest of skeletal trees and dry, desiccated shrubs dotted the landscape around him, and the stench of sulfur wafted across the water from a noxious haze shrouding the opposite shore. It curled its way into Castiel’s nose and mouth, burning his senses with its acrid tang.

He looked around warily, shoulders taut with tension. He knew this place, but didn’t understand how he’d come to be there.

“Be ready,” a baritone voice spoke.

Brilliant light suddenly emanated from behind him, and Castiel turned, frown deepening. Standing in a brilliant blaze of figures cloaked in celestial radiance were angels. His garrison.

It was Uriel who had spoken. A bright luminescence undulated around staunch shoulders, shimmering with anticipation. Bands of streaking white and silver zinged out along the contours of arched wings. But that couldn’t be right…Uriel was dead.

The angel came to stand beside Castiel, looking out over the river Acheron into Hell proper. “You know it is probably too late,” he said in a quieter voice so the other angels wouldn’t hear.

“Heaven has commanded it,” Castiel replied automatically. “Dean Winchester must be saved.”

Uriel harrumphed, but didn’t say anything further. Castiel cocked his head to study him. The angel’s rigid features were reminiscent of the vessel he’d worn during his time on earth: a high brow and wide nose…cold blue eyes that were flat compared to the mantle of grace hooding his face and draping down to his feet.

“What troubles you, Castiel?” he asked.

Castiel’s mouth pressed into a tight line, and he looked away to scan the distant shore. Nebulous shapes moved within the fulvous fog.

Uriel’s voice lowered with a trace of empathy laced with disgust. “It rankles me as well, being so close to such vile vermin.”

Castiel glanced down at the human hand of his vessel and clenched a fist. Something wasn’t right about this. He’d been here before, but not in Jimmy Novak’s body. No, he’d come to Jimmy after…

Had he been sent back in time? The angels had saved Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, from the pit, but not before the first seal had been broken. Was Castiel being given a chance to change that? To thwart Lucifer’s rising so the Apocalypse would never even start?

But that didn’t seem right. The only one with the power to send him back was God, yet why, after months of fruitless searching, would his father step in now? And in this manner, without at least giving Castiel instructions first?

No, this had to be something else, but what? He swept his gaze around once more, squinting as he noticed faint wisps like gray flames curling along the ground and up an invisible wall. Those weren’t the fumes of Hell.

_Dammit._ He startled at the thought, for it was something Dean would say. Yet it seemed appropriate for the situation. Castiel remembered confronting the baku stalking Dean’s dreams, and it had somehow caught him instead. This was his mind now. His memories of Hell.

It shouldn’t be possible though. Angels didn’t sleep, and they certainly didn’t dream. Gritting his teeth, Castiel cursed just how far he had fallen that he could be susceptible to something so…mortal.

Uriel shifted beside him, drawing stout shoulders back. “We shall slaughter them all, leave a wake of God’s wrath in our path.” His voice had risen so that the other angels heard, and the grating of steel signaled the drawing of swords.

Uriel lifted his own angel blade, the ethereal alloy catching the reflection of grace and refracting it to spear through scrawny brush and brittle trees. “In the name of God!”

A chorus of musical voices echoed his words. Castiel turned away, intent on seeking out the baku, when a discordant cry rose from his right. Out of the haze, a horde of demons charged. Black smoke billowed about their humanoid figures as they barreled toward the garrison, corroded axes and clubs raised high above their heads. The other angels surged forward to meet them in a clash of screeching metal and high-pitched shrieks.

Castiel felt the tug to join them, to rally to his brothers’ and sisters’ defense, to stand with them as he once had. But this was merely a hallucination. A nightmare like the ones he’d witnessed Dean experience multiple times.

One of the demons broke through the garrison and hurtled toward him. Castiel watched with mild consideration as the demon swung its iron blade. A weight plowed into him, knocking him away at the last second, but the blunted tip still grazed his chest, cutting through fabric and flesh. Castiel gasped in surprise from the sting in his torso and the jarring impact as he hit the ground.

Uriel leaped off him, spinning around with his angel blade and decapitating the demon with one arc. His grace flared with fury as he whirled back to Castiel. “What is the matter with you?” The angel was distracted as more demons converged, and he pivoted away to meet them.

Castiel pressed a hand to his chest, wincing at the sharp stab of pain. His fingers came away bloody, and for a moment he simply stared at the bright crimson. That… _hurt_.

But this wasn’t real. It was a dream construct. He tried to wake, to push the pain down, but found himself trapped, the baku’s hold too strong.

Battle raged around him, and two demons split away from the melee to run toward him. Castiel launched to his feet, dropping his angel blade down from his sleeve. He managed to raise it in a parry a second before a club bashed his head in. The impact vibrated down his arm in a jolt that felt all too firm and real. Twisting under the demon’s arm, he spun and thrust his blade up into the demon’s chest. With a gasp, orange lightning exploded through its mouth and splintered from its eyes.

The body barely dropped before the second demon was on him, and Castiel gasped as another burst of pain lanced through his abdomen.

* * *

It’d been a couple hours since Cas had fallen into a coma, and Sam still hadn’t found anything on how to vanquish a baku. All the rituals surrounding the creature were to ask for it to _come_ eat people’s dreams. He snorted. If they only knew what they were praying to. Although, to be fair, it seemed that the creature wasn’t normally evil, and that it’d somehow gone rogue after taking a few cues from the djinn’s playbook.

Dean was pacing at the foot of the bed. “Well?”

Sam let out a frustrated sigh. “Nothing. I mean, I could try a reversal of the litany used to summon it.”

Dean shot him a dirty look that asked why he’d hadn’t tried that from the start.

Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs, and lifted his gaze to the ceiling as though to pray. It was just habit, to look heavenward when speaking to a transcendental being, even though there was nothing divine about this one.

“Baku-san, leave our dreams. Baku-san, leave our dreams. Baku-san, leave our dreams.” He looked around warily, half-expecting some specter to go whooshing through the curtains or something. But nothing happened.

Dean scowled. “Are you serious? You want a candle and mirror to go with that?”

Sam threw his arms up. “That’s what people are supposed to do! Ask it to come eat their dreams three times.”

Dean glanced at Cas. The angel didn’t even stir. Yeah, Sam hadn’t expected it to work either.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Dean growled. “Just wait around for Cas to gank the thing and wake up? How long is that gonna take anyway?”

“How should I know?” Sam swallowed his irritation. He was worried. It had been one thing when the baku was stalking Dean, and Cas could just pop into his head to make sure he was alright. But now they had no idea what was going on in Cas’s mind. Were he and the baku locked in some kind of battle in a blank ethereal plane where angels didn’t dream? Or was the creature devouring Cas right in front of them, working its way to consuming his hope and entire essence?

Sam ran a hand through his hair. This was partly his fault. He’d known Cas was getting worn out, even if the angel had never said anything. But he’d been so focused on his brother that he’d ignored the signs suggesting maybe Cas wasn’t up to taking on the baku by himself. And Castiel would never back down from a threat to the Winchesters. He needed to feel useful, waning grace or no.

If they got Cas out of this mess, Sam was gonna make sure to pay more attention to him in the future. None of them really knew what it meant for an angel to slowly fall. Castiel’s powers were diminished, but he was still very much a formidable ally—from what he let the Winchesters see. It was what he kept hidden that concerned Sam; Cas needed to be honest with them before another situation like this happened and it became too late to help him.

Dean stepped closer to the bed and leaned forward. “Dammit, I think he’s dreaming.”

Sam surged to his feet. Sure enough, Cas’s eyes were moving rapidly behind his closed lids, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. Shit, that meant the baku was feeding.

Wait…if Cas was in a dream, it meant there was a way for them to save him after all.

“We can confront the baku,” Sam said eagerly.

“And how are we gonna do that?” his brother snipped. “Ask it three times to head hop to one of us? Maybe if we make it run in circles for a bit, it’ll get fed up and leave.”

Sam shot him a dark glower. If Dean would calm down for one minute, he might catch on to what Sam was thinking. “We use African dream root to go into Cas’s dream, find the baku…and kill it if we have to.”

Dean paused, jaw going slack. “Oh, right. Good plan.”

Sam resisted rolling his eyes as he strode toward the mini kitchenette counter. He dumped the coffee grinds in the garbage and used the machine to heat up plain water. Dean went out to the Impala to get what little stash they had left of the dream inducing plant and the few other ingredients for African dream root tea.

Sam walked over to Cas and plucked a strand of hair from his head. As he did, Castiel let out a muffled grunt, and Sam jerked back, thinking maybe he’d woken the angel after all. But Cas’s features scrunched up in what looked like pain. Hadn’t Dean said injuries in the nightmare had felt real? Could they do actual harm though?

Cas’s fingers curled in the bedcover before his head tipped to the side and he fell completely still again. Shit, they needed to hurry.

Dean returned with the ingredients, and Sam mixed a three-quarter-inch piece of the dream root with a tablespoon each of ground ginger, cinnamon, and honey in the steaming water. Then he added the piece of Cas’s hair.

“What do you think an angel dreams about?” Dean asked quietly, gaze fixed on Cas.

Sam glanced that direction one more time as he stirred the tea. The guy had been around for centuries; Sam honestly had no idea what horrific things Cas might have seen in his time. Except, Sam had been under the impression that nothing scared angels.

“Guess we’ll find out.” He poured the concoction into two cups. Handing one to Dean, he nodded resolutely. _Here goes nothing._


	6. Nightmare on Hell Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, writing Hell brought out my inner poet...

Sam jerked into alertness as a wave of blistering heat washed over him. He shot his arms out for balance, whipping his head around to take in his surroundings. A rufous sky stretched above him, reddish-brown clouds churning with occasional flashes of orange-tinged lightning. Stunted trees and bushes blackened to a crisp dotted the landscape, which was interspersed with wisps of yellowish gas that floated in pockets low to the dried, cracked ground.

Sam immediately broke into a sweat under the oppressive humidity, sticky sheets of it coating his face and neck. A faint breeze tickled his hair, but offered no relief, only a burst of fetid dragon’s breath that threatened to suffocate him. The wind nipped at a burnt shrub, and a handful of charcoal branches disintegrated like gunpowder. Sprinkles of it floated into a patch of gas and crackled in a series of minuscule explosions.

“What the hell…” he murmured, turning in a full circle. What was this place supposed to be?

He spotted Dean standing a few feet away, frozen like a statue. Despite the sweltering heat, his face looked pale, and his pupils had dilated in horror.

“Dean!” Sam closed the distance and gripped his brother’s arms. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He craned his neck in a quick search of the area, but there was no sign of the baku. Or Cas.

When Dean didn’t respond, Sam gave him a slight shake. “Dean, snap out of it!”

His brother blinked, and a semblance of awareness crept back into his eyes as he met Sam’s gaze. “Sammy,” he choked out. “I think we’re in Hell.”

Sam frowned. “What?” He looked around again, understanding dawning. Shit, Cas was dreaming of _Hell_. Of course, the angel had been there before, so it made sense that place had the most terrifying things for the baku to play with.

Dean reached both hands up to hold his head. “We’re dead, Sam. We’re in Hell.”

“Whoa, Dean, calm down. We’re not dead.” Sam tightened his grip on Dean’s arms, hard enough to bruise. “We took the dream root, remember? So we’re in Cas’s head, not Hell.”

Well, not the real Hell, though this noxious, arid landscape seemed to be doing a damn fine imitation. Not that Sam had any personal experience to base that on, but with the flammable gas and temperatures fit to roast a human, they were either in Hell or on Mercury.

He turned back to his brother. “ _Dean_. You with me?” Shit, he couldn’t do this alone. Dean had to pull himself together, even if they had suddenly found themselves in his worst nightmare, and it wasn’t even his dream.

Dean swallowed hard, but slowly lowered his arms. “Yeah, I’m…I’m good.” He cleared his throat. “We need to find Cas.”

Sam finally stepped back and scanned the vista. A black, obsidian river glittered several miles behind them, and a dark mountain loomed due east. Storm clouds billowed around the summit and spilled out over a gray vale. “Which way do you think?”

“Uhh…” Dean waved a hand around before pointing in a random direction.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Can’t you sense him?”

Dean made a face. “ _No_. Why would I?”

“I don’t know, your scar maybe.”

He scowled. “It’s not a Cas GPS locater.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Yeah, but we already know it gives you some kind of connection, and we’re _inside_ his head. You could at least try. What else do we have to go on?”

Grumbling, Dean turned in a half-circle and closed his eyes, lifting his brows high as though the whole thing were ridiculous. After a long moment, however, his mouth tightened in real concentration. Dean snapped his eyes open, looking slightly bewildered.

“Um, I _think_ …this way.” He thrust his chin toward the valley.

Sam would have teased Dean relentlessly about it, just to distract them as they hiked, but the heat was stifling, and both of them were drenched in sweat. It ran into Sam’s eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. He wiped the back of his sleeve across his face, but the grime-coated shirt only made it worse. Jeez, Cas’s dream was vivid. Or maybe that was the baku’s influence; made the nightmare tastier.

Sam’s chest constricted with increasing worry. He could only imagine what his brother’s dreams of Hell were like. Dean never gave him details, but sometimes he’d catch a word or sentence when Dean cried out in his sleep. His brother had been tortured for thirty years here…what did Cas have to dream about? With a start, Sam realized that Castiel’s journey into Hell to save Dean may not have been as simple as a quick swoop in and rescue. After all, the Winchesters had recently learned that Cas’s wings were tarnished from his exposure to the pit. What else had he gone through down there that might haunt him?

The torrid heat eased the closer they drew to the mountain, and a stronger, slightly cool breeze kicked up, pushing away the pouches of combustible fumes, which relieved Sam. It’d been like walking through a field of land mines laced with mustard gas.

The terrain gradually changed to blackened, igneous rock as they skirted toward the base of the peak, and Sam wondered whether it was a volcano—and an active one at that. There was still no sign of Cas, but Dean seemed sure they were heading in the right direction. Hopefully this dream world didn’t go on forever, or they might never find him.

Dean stopped abruptly. “Sam,” he said quietly. “I think the baku’s here.”

Sam pulled up short, muscles tensing. “Where?” He swept his gaze over the coal-black boulders, but nothing moved.

“Two o’clock, behind that pyramid of rocks.”

Sam swallowed nervously. “You sure it’s the baku and not some Hell monster?”

Dean nodded. “I saw its eyes.”

Alright then, they could end this faster than he thought. Sam reached into his jacket pocket, only to realize he didn’t have a weapon. “Shit. Dean, are you armed?”

“What? Oh, dammit.” Dean patted himself down and let loose a string of curses under his breath.

Okay, maybe they hadn’t thought that one through, but they hadn’t expected Cas to be dreaming of a place where they couldn’t readily get a weapon.

“What do we do?” Sam whispered.

Dean shrugged, at a loss. “Try to scare it away like Cas did for me?”

Yeah, ‘cause that’d gone so well for the angel the last time. Perhaps if they came face to face with the baku spirit, Sam could try the triple request for it to leave again.

The boys cautiously skirted the mound of rocks. A slurping sound was coming from the other side, and Sam exchanged a wary look with Dean a moment before they peered around the outcropping. What they saw made Sam’s spine go rigid. Based on his research, he’d had an image of a cat-size, tapir type creature in his head. But this was not a cute little mammal…

Its quills—which were definitely not in the traditional description—jiggled and scraped like chafing knives. Great huffs chuffed from its snout as it gobbled up the ground. Not just the smooth igneous surface though; the baku was sucking up an entire boulder like it was a piece of Hollywood backdrop, inhaling it into the vortex of its mouth. Claws gouged up the sediment, loosening it for better consumption.

Sam’s stomach lurched. This was not good, really not good.

He whipped back behind the boulders. “How are we supposed to scare _that_ off without any weapons?” he hissed. Granted, the thing wasn’t that big compared to Sam, but with those tusks and razor teeth, it didn’t look like it would scare easily.

Dean’s face had drained of color. Right, he hadn’t seen the thing when it’d been trespassing in his dreams. Shrugging off his hesitation, he bent down and picked up a large rock. Before Sam could stop him, Dean had jumped out from their cover.

“Hey, ass-wipe! Get out of Cas’s head!” He lobbed the chunk at the baku. It smashed into its cheek above one of the tusks, spewing its mouthful back out in a puddle of treacly ink and warped nuggets. Sam fought a surge of bile in his own throat.

The reptilian head jerked away, snapping yellow eyes to them. Slitted pupils contracted, and a low growl emanated from its belly. It took a menacing step toward them.

Sam raised his hands placatingly. “Baku-san, leave this dream. Baku-san, leave this—”

The creature threw its head back and let out a bloodcurdling chitter, rattling the spikes down its back like steel on chalkboard. Sam flinched away as the sound painfully assaulted his ears. He vaguely heard Dean swear over the screeching noise.

The baku’s quills shot upright, and it whipped its rear end around. With a snick, several of the spicules detached and whirred through the air, straight at Sam and Dean.

Sam barely recovered from his surprise in time to dive for the ground. His palms scraped across coarse rock, and there was a rush of wind through his hair as the barbs whizzed over his head to clatter against the boulders. He flipped onto his back, ready to fight off a charging baku, but it had turned tail and run. Sam caught a glimpse of its metallic back before it disappeared around another large outcropping.

Twisting back around, his heart dropped into his stomach. “Dean!”

His brother was lying on his side, back to Sam, and wasn’t moving.

Sam scrambled to Dean’s side and rolled him over, terrified he’d find a two-foot spike embedded in his brother’s chest. There wasn’t, thank god, or anywhere else.

Dean groaned as he came to. “Sam, you gotta stop hovering.”

He bit back a retort and instead asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “Just went down a little hard.” He propped himself up on his elbows and winced. Lifting his arm, he inspected a gash on his upper sleeve that was leaking a trail of blood. “Son-of-a-bitch. Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt like that.”

Sam peeled back a jagged layer of torn shirt. The laceration didn’t look deep, just a graze. He nearly sagged in relief. That had been close. What would even happen to them if they died in Cas’s dream? Would they wake up, or die in real life too?

Sam pulled out a bandana to wrap around the wound. It was kinda weird to find things in his pockets since this was a dream. Next time he took dream root, he’d remember to load up his person with all manner of weapons.

“Where’s the baku?” Dean asked as he sat the rest of the way up.

“Ran off.” Sam grimaced at the half-hopeful look on his brother’s face. “I don’t think it left Cas’s dream, just relocated.” He finished securing the makeshift bandage.

Dean grumbled under his breath. “I don’t remember reading about porcupine projectiles in the lore.”

Sam snorted. “Because it wasn’t. But I’m guessing most people don’t get an up-close look at it.”

Dean took a moment to look around, eyes settling on the spikes they’d narrowly avoided being skewered with. A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “One good thing from that—we now have weapons.”

Dean got to his feet and went to pick up two of the spines, tossing one to Sam. He caught the dirk-size quill, and was surprised to find it as cold and firm as steel. Angling the tip, he lightly pressed a finger to it. Definitely sharp. Well, since the baku wouldn’t go down without a fight, at least they’d now be able to give it one.

He and Dean retrieved the rest of the fallen spicules, five in all, and slipped the extras into their jackets. Just as they were finishing, Sam looked up, back toward the scorching desert, and caught something in the distant sky, a wisp of dark cloud spiraling through the haze.

He squinted, and alarm spiked through him. “Uh, Dean, we should run.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder. “What is that?”

A prickle of foreboding ran up the back of Sam’s neck. There were shapes in the cloud—no, the cloud _was_ a bunch of individual shapes swarming in formation. A cacophony of warbling chirps reached his ears as the figures drew close enough to make out dozens of lizard bodies supported by webbed, leathery wings.

The cloud of creatures suddenly banked and plummeted toward the Winchesters’ position.

Dean whirled. “Yeah, running would be good.”

They took off across the rocky terrain as a chorus of high-pitched screeches sounded on their heels.

* * *

Castiel slipped in a puddle of slush and almost went down. The angel he was supporting let out a pained gasp, her weight sagging against him. He paused for a brief moment to pull her arm further over his shoulders and readjust his grip around her waist.

“Keep going,” he commanded.

Anahita’s breaths were ragged, but she endeavored to hold herself up straighter. Her cloak of grace was fizzling, fritzing in and out with spasms. One wing trailed behind her; the slivers of light that normally streaked through the feathers had faded, leaving only a faint outline of mangled pinions dragging through the mud.

Icy rain pelted their backs as they slogged through vile sludge. Castiel’s pants and the bottom rim of his trench coat were splattered with sticky black unguent, weighing him down. Water plastered his hair across his forehead and streamed down his nose and chin. The bitter cold dug into his flesh, stealing sensation from his outer extremities. It was becoming more difficult to keep a grasp on his wounded sister.

The rest of the garrison trudged around them, movements also hindered by various wounds and the constant, oppressive pressure of Hell’s atmosphere. Their foray into the pit had been a bloody, unceasing assault against its denizens. Two angels had died already, and they had barely penetrated the third circle.

Anahita slumped against his chest, nearly knocking him over. Gritting his teeth, he hefted her up and hauled her over to the cliff face of a ten-foot escarpment, which at least sheltered them from the assailing rain. Castiel gently lowered her to the ground, but couldn’t prevent the sharp cry as her wing bent unnaturally against the rock.

“We must stop,” he called to Uriel.

The other angel whirled, his face a stony mask as he marched back toward them. Raindrops hissed against the shield of his grace, which was oscillating between wavelengths of wrath and, dare Castiel say, a trace of fear. Uriel’s severe gaze swept over Anahita’s condition in a quick assessment that brooked no sympathy.

“We cannot tarry for the Monstrosity to find us.”

Anahita’s fist tightened in Castiel’s coat sleeve. “Please,” she rasped, eyes wide and terrified. “Do not leave me for him.”

Castiel braced a hand on her shoulder. “I will not, sister.” He shot Uriel a sharp look. “We have lost them for now. Let everyone take a short respite before we continue.”

Uriel scowled and pivoted. “Five minutes,” he barked.

Castiel turned back to Anahita. His chest constricted at the grace leaking from several vital wounds, dribbling out like liquid silver to splash in the slush—too much for him to heal even if he had been at full power. It was taking more than he liked as it was just to mend his own injuries, or at least stop the bleeding. He wouldn’t have bothered except blood loss seemed to weaken him further, despite the fact this wasn’t real. Wasn’t _supposed_ to be real.

A wet cough rattled Anahita’s delicate frame.

_No, not again._

The baku’s dream construct was forcing Castiel to relive his journey into Hell, and he couldn’t escape. He pressed two fingers to her forehead in a desperate attempt to change the outcome. His grace flared, but it was like a tiny candle flame against the dying pulses of her own. Castiel pushed harder, attempting to shove his waning energy into Anahita, even as in the far recesses of his mind, he knew it was a futile waste. She wasn’t really here.

Castiel’s shoulders drooped forward and he sank down to squelch in the mud, his hand falling limply from her brow. Slick, cold gunk seeped through his pants to numb his legs. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, finding speech difficult with the lump settling in his throat.

Moisture glistened like diamonds at the corners of her lavender eyes. “He was…so…strong,” she wheezed. “How could…the face of evil…be stronger than…angels?”

Castiel tipped his head back against the rock to gaze at a pewter sky roiling with pitch and midnight fumes. “I do not know.”

A breath hiccuped in her chest, and Anahita lashed a hand out to grip his as her eyes flew wide, staring straight up at some sightless apparition. Castiel didn’t know if the radiant rays of Heaven could penetrate this far down, but he prayed its comforting light was what she saw in her final moments.

Her grace surged, arching her head back in a wordless scream. A brilliant explosion blinded Castiel, and a concussive push of air blew back his rain-soaked hair. The hand in his evaporated as the dazzling essence of Anahita was extinguished. Only a blackened shape framed by charcoal wings lay where she had been a moment ago.

Bowing his head, Castiel pressed his palm to the singed ground, which was quickly bleeding away under the torrential water. “Goodbye, sister,” he whispered.

He rose stiffly to his feet. The other angels had also lowered their heads to give their own silent goodbyes. Uriel lifted his gaze first, eager to press on. Castiel could not stay here though, could not endure more of this pointless rehashing of what was done. He needed to track down the baku and attempt to kill it. Castiel wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to defeat the creature, but he had to try.

At least Dean should be safe now. Or Castiel hoped. Since the baku had left his mind, the hunter should have woken from sleep as normal. Castiel wondered how much time had passed in the waking world. The Winchesters were probably worried about him, and it was likely an inconvenience to watch over his unconscious vessel. Castiel didn’t want to be a burden. Better to find the baku and end this quickly, one way or another.

Except, if he failed to slay the creature, it might return to Dean’s dreams and continue to feed after it finished with him. Castiel could not allow that to happen.

Uriel cleared his throat. “Time to move.”

Castiel didn’t turn to follow. He couldn’t stay with the garrison, not if he hoped to achieve his goal. But in his renewed grief over Anahita’s death, he’d forgotten what had come next in this part of their journey.

A viscid glop of saliva plopped on the ground next to his feet, and Castiel went rigid as a low growl emanated from above. He looked up to find a hulking brute of a hellhound perched on the scarp. Three sets of glowing red eyes fixated on him.

_Cerberus._


	7. The Third Circle of Hell

Dean barreled across the volcanic terrain, a swarm of flying reptiles squawking behind him and Sam. What he wouldn’t give for a gun right then, or a handful of grenades. He almost tripped over a corrugated ridge in the ground, and shot a look over his shoulder as he righted himself. The black speckled cloud was like a massive flock of birds, banking and swirling in unison. One of the little buggers zoomed ahead of the rest, talons on each of its three toes poised to rip and tear.

“Dean, over here!” Sam shouted.

He veered toward his brother’s voice, spotting Sam as he wedged himself between two cliffs. Dean closed the distance, smacking his shoulder and scraping his arms against coarse rock as he slipped into the narrow gap. The hive of lizards swarmed overhead, screeching in their synchronized spiral. If it wasn’t for the collective Borg mentality, they might have splintered into smaller groups to try and fit.

Dean leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. His sweat-soaked shirt and jacket felt too tight around his chest. Sam’s shoulders were heaving as well, and he kept glancing up worriedly at the sky mottled with monsters.

“We should keep moving,” he wheezed.

Dean forced himself to stand up straight. “Yeah.”

The gulch sloped downward, carving a tapered path that would take them even deeper between the crags. Dean felt a twinge of claustrophobia.

“Are we still headed toward Cas?” Sam asked.

“I think so, not that it matters. We can’t go back the way we came.”

Sam cocked his head in agreement, and they started down the gully’s declivity. As the sky darkened and a bitter chill seeped through the air, the cloud of reptiles petered out, retreating toward warmer climate. Dean’s sticky clothes hadn’t had a chance to fully dry before the moisture in them turned to ice. A frigid droplet hit his cheek, and he glanced up to find a sleet of rain lashing horizontally across the tops of the bluffs.

Huh, Hell apparently did freeze over sometimes.

A scratching sound made him whirl around, and he caught a few pebbles sliding down the side of the cliff face before everything fell still again. Maybe it was just normal erosion.

He started to turn when a strident screech split the air and one of those damn winged reptiles came shooting toward him. Its spade-shaped snout was open wide, razor teeth bared. Dean ducked before its claws could gouge out his eyes…which unfortunately left Sam’s back wide open.

Sam had only turned halfway when the creature latched onto him. With a startled cry, he flailed his arms to try and rip it off, but there wasn’t enough space in the tight trench.

Dean whipped out one of the baku spikes. “Sam, get down!”

His brother hunkered over, bowed back lifting the lizard up like a dish on a platter, and Dean stabbed it. The tip pierced squishy flesh and the creature let out an anguished squeal as the momentum skewered it to the rock. Leathery wings thrashed in an attempt to free itself, slapping Dean in the face. He gave the spine a sharp twist. With a choked gurgle, the monster fell limp.

Dean jiggled the spike loose from the rock, extricating the reptile to dangle on the end. He planted his boot on the head, pinning it to the ground, and slid the carbon spicule out with a squelch, now coated in syrupy green blood.

Sam slowly straightened, eyes wide as he took in the creature. Both brothers craned their necks around to make sure there weren’t any other stragglers, but it seemed as though it’d just been the one.

“We need to wake Cas from this hellhole, like yesterday,” Dean said.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, if this is what the fringe monsters look like, I’d hate to see what Cas is facing.”

Dean’s stomach clenched. It was becoming evident that his stay in Hell had only given him a fraction of what the place was really like. As if his nightmares weren’t horrific enough. Though, after this whole thing with the baku, Dean didn’t think he’d ever want to sleep again.

He and Sam continued the descent into the valley, which became more slippery and treacherous as the torrential rain high above began streaming down the cliff sides. Loose sediment slid under their feet, and they took to gripping the rugged walls hemming them in for purchase.

The bottom finally came into view, twenty feet down, and Dean tried not to let his urgent need for open space make him careless. He almost skidded through the mud anyway when a bloodcurdling howl rent the air. His pulse immediately kickstarted into overdrive.

Shit, he should have known there would be hellhounds here. It was _Hell_ after all. But he didn’t know if he could handle it. As much as admitting that filled him with humiliation and self-loathing, Dean found himself suddenly rooted to the spot, terrified of leaving the safety of the ravine.

Sam shot him an uncertain look over his shoulder. Neither of them were adequately equipped to take on invisible mutts.

But then a flash of white light reflected off the rocky walls, coming from somewhere just beyond them. Dean’s heart nearly stopped. That couldn’t be what he thought it was…

Dammit, this was no time to give in to his fear. Whether the hellhounds were real or not, he was not going to let them get his best friend.

He gestured impatiently at Sam to keep going, and they hastily stumbled toward the base of the bluffs where they splashed in an inch of standing sludge. Both brothers froze at the scene before them.

They’d come out in a bog near the base of the black mountain. The flat expanse was filled with blazing specters and snarling wolves locked in battle. Dean was pretty sure the brutish beasts were hellhounds—he’d never get their sounds out of his mind—but how was it that he could _see_ them? And the lights…figures spun and lunged like men bathed in blinding robes. Dean caught the metallic glint of blades. Were those… _angels_?

Sam sucked in a breath. “Dean, there!”

He whipped his gaze toward where his brother pointed, and his blood ran cold. In the middle of the melee, Castiel was battling the most hideous thing Dean had ever laid eyes on. It looked like a huge black mastiff, standing at a height of six feet and weighing a couple hundred pounds. Except instead of fur or skin, the creature was all fibrous muscle, flexing and contracting with each move as it lunged at Cas. Dean could see the creature’s veins running throughout its body, glowing like brimstone, and _three_ heads had fiery red eyes focused on the trench-coated angel.

The dog head in the center snapped its jaws at Castiel, who shot his angel blade up to block. The beast’s fangs clacked over the flat side of the sword and tried to pull it from Cas’s grip. Wrenching sideways, the angel sliced through the hound’s cheek. Black ichor sprayed the other head in blood-like fluid as the middle one reared back with a yelp.

The head on the right lashed out, catching Cas’s sword arm between its teeth. He let out a sharp cry and tried to jerk away, but the mutt had him trapped. Dropping his angel blade, Cas deftly caught the hilt in his left hand and thrust upward into the dog’s throat. With a gurgling cough, it released him to stagger back and gargle on its own blood. Castiel pivoted to face the third head, but he suddenly swayed and almost buckled.

Gripping the baku’s quill, Dean charged into the mire, attempting to dodge between the angels and wolves locked in battle. One hound barked at him as he ran past; he jabbed his stake at it and kept going. Icy rain and mud splattered his face, stinging his eyes and filling his mouth with an acidic tang.

“Cas!” he shouted.

Castiel had backed up against a high scarp as though to support himself. At Dean’s voice, he snapped his gaze to the side, eyes going wide. The three-headed hellhound stood only four feet from him, and it too jerked its attention to the hunter. The head on the far end now dangled limply, tongue lolling out, but the other two were still in the game.

Dean skidded to a stop, feet almost sliding out from under him in the muck. As soon as he caught his balance, he threw his spike like a spear. It sailed through the air and sank into the hound’s flank. The beast flinched, letting out a vicious snarl. Throwing its one good head back, a howl belted from the animal’s throat.

Dean shoved down the surge of terror that sound always gave him, and rushed to Cas.

“Dean?” the angel gasped, gaping at him in bewilderment. “No, you can’t be here. You’re not supposed to be _here_.”

“It’s okay.” He whipped his head back toward the hellhound, but it seemed to have forgotten them. Instead, its eyes were trained on something off to his left. Dean twisted around and spotted a single figure striding slowly through the rain. It was perhaps forty yards away, yet he could tell it was a giant of a…what, man? A heavy cloak completely concealed his features, though the hood seemed to be covering a head the size of an astronaut’s helmet.

“The Monstrosity comes!” one of the angels trumpeted.

_The what?_

Sam was suddenly at his side, pulling at his arm urgently. “Dean! We need to go.”

He snapped himself back to attention and grabbed Cas’s arm, tugging him in the opposite direction of the newcomer. If the three-headed hellhound was eagerly awaiting his assistance, then this wasn’t a dude to stick around for.

“No.” Castiel tried to shove him off. “I can’t leave my brothers.”

“They’re not real anyway!” Dean snapped.

“Cas,” Sam urged. “We have to get out of here and find the baku.”

Cas blinked and furrowed his brow. “Wait, how could you know about that?”

“Because it’s _us_.” Dean tightened his grip on the angel’s arm. “Now let’s go!”

Cas cast an uncertain look at the spectral angels, but let Dean and Sam haul him away. They staggered through the pelting rain, inhuman screams and flashes of white light exploding behind them.

* * *

They needed to get out of this torrential downpour. Sam wordlessly veered toward the mountain looming on his left, hoping to find some kind of shelter. All three of them were soaked in crud, and their shoes squished through the slimy sludge. Cas slipped, and Sam caught him by the arm, which for some reason caused the angel to let out a stifled grunt. Shit, Cerberus had bitten him.

Sam couldn’t believe the legendary hellhound was actually real, though by this point, nothing should have surprised him. Except for maybe the sight of ethereal angels battling demon dogs. Cas’s lucid nightmare was unlike anything he could have anticipated.

Cas stumbled again, one leg nearly buckling, and Sam snaked an arm around his waist before he could collapse. “I gotcha. Just a little further, Cas.”

Dean ducked in to support Castiel’s other side, and the three of them slogged slowly through the quagmire. The wind nipped at their already chilled bones, freezing the water that clung to their eyelashes. Sam blinked and rubbed the ice crystals away.

At last, he spotted a cave set in the base of the peak and directed them toward it. They shuffled inside, and Sam was surprised to find it wasn’t completely dark. Phosphorescent crystals protruding from the ground and ceiling cast an unearthly glow throughout the cavern.

“I hope nothing lives in here,” Dean grumbled as they eased Cas down to lean against one wall.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth the plastered strands away from his face. He shivered, and wondered at the viability of starting a fire. At least the place was dry and they were out of the howling wind. Kneeling next to Cas, he reached for the angel’s arm. Crimson blood mixed with viscous black saliva looked like a radioactive chemical spill in the green luminescence. Sam grimaced at the bite wounds framing above and below Castiel’s elbow. He was lucky the mutt hadn’t taken his arm clean off.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, catching sight of it, and started sloughing out of his jacket.

Cas blinked owlishly at them. “I don’t understand. How…what are you doing here?”

“We used African dream root to enter your dream,” Sam explained.

Cas tipped his head back to thump against the cave wall. “ _Why_ would you do that?”

Dean shook his head in exasperation and shed his button-down next. Sam reached over to help get his arms free when the saturated fabric stuck. Then Dean wadded up the shirt inside-out and began wiping the gunk and blood from Castiel’s arm.

“You were trying to save me from the baku, and it got you instead. You think I was just gonna take that lying down?”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s choice of words. “Come on, Cas,” he said. “After everything, do you honestly still think we wouldn’t come for you?”

Cas sighed. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t be so foolish. Now you’re trapped here as well, and if you’re killed…”

“Dying is always a risk in our lives,” Dean interrupted. “And don’t you dare say you’re not worth it.”

Castiel snapped his mouth closed and looked away. Thankfully, he didn’t argue, though whether because he accepted it or it was a moot point, Sam didn’t know.

Cas angled his gaze down to where Dean was cleaning away the grime-coated bites as well as he could. “You don’t have to do that. The wound isn’t real.” He sucked in a breath when Dean applied pressure.

“Seems to hurt like hell for something that isn’t real. And it’s still bleeding.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Yes, pain here is…more vivid.”

That was for sure. Sam tried to imagine a bonfire to warm himself up, but it didn’t work. Which begged the question of mind over matter…

“Can you heal yourself?” he asked.

Castiel’s features tightened in consternation. “Slowly.” He paused. “But my grace is wearing thin. I’ve already healed several wounds since arriving in this dream world.”

Sam stiffened. “Can you die here?” He’d seen the charcoal outlines of wings in the bog when he’d run after Dean. If angels could normally be killed in Hell, then what did that mean for Cas? It was bad enough the baku was somewhere devouring his mind, which was probably weakening him further.

Cas didn’t respond for a long moment. His shoulders sagged. “Possibly. I truly don’t know what to expect anymore. The baku should not have been able to trap me…angels are supposed to be impervious to such beings.”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw ticked. “But you’re not invincible anymore. Dammit, Cas, when will you start acknowledging your limitations?”

Castiel’s eyes flared with a spark of indignation. “Like you do? Entering my nightmare is one of the most reckless things you’ve ever done, and you two have quite the record.”

Sam’s brows lifted. While he admitted they needed to hash this out, now didn’t seem like the best time.

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Sam shot him a quelling glower and interrupted. “We can have this conversation later. First priority is to get rid of the baku.”

Dean grumbled under his breath, and he and Cas exchanged a black look before the angel shifted to sit up straighter.

“We should keep moving.”

Dean put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. “I don’t think any of us are ready to go back out into that storm. Cold still may not bother you, but Sam and I are popsicles here.”

Cas tilted his head and studied them. Sam was doing his best not to shiver, but he was freezing, and by the minute tremors running through the angel, he guessed Dean’s assessment about Cas’s immunity to temperature was wrong.

“The cave goes all the way through and comes out in another circle,” Cas said. “It will be warmer, too.”

“But what if the baku is out in the marsh?” Not that Sam wanted to face the chilling rain again, or a pack of hellhounds.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas said quickly. “We can’t return that way.” The guy was already pale from borderline hypothermia, but it seemed his face had gone a shade whiter at Sam’s suggestion.

Dean glanced toward the cave opening, and then back at Cas, forehead creased in thought. “What’s the Monstrosity?” he asked in a low tone.

Cas flicked his gaze to the ground, but Sam caught the flash of fear in his eyes anyway. “A demon,” he said quietly. “One of Lucifer’s fallen brethren.”

“So, he’s stronger than the average demon?” Sam guessed.

Cas nodded. “He was one of the first Lucifer twisted in the pit, but Lucifer went too far and the Monstrosity was born. He hates angels with a vengeance.”

_Shit_. Okay, they were definitely not heading back out toward the mire.

Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t get it. If angels don’t sleep, then you don’t dream either. So what is this?”

Castiel squinted. “It’s true, angels don’t have dreams of their own, but it seems the baku has sifted through my memories and constructed a fantasy world around it.”

Dean rocked back slightly. “Memories of Hell? You mean all this was real when you…gripped me tight and all that?”

Cas cocked a confused brow. “It took us years to lay siege to Hell. There were many battles.”

Dean looked ready to puke, or maybe that was the green halo encircling his face. Either way, Sam could imagine what he was feeling. They hadn’t even known Cas when he’d rescued Dean. Heck, they’d thought he was some big bad evil they needed to kill. Yet the angel had sacrificed so much for them before they’d ever met. Dean owed Cas for getting him out of Hell; Sam owed him for bringing his brother back. And then for a host of other things that came after. How could they ever repay such a debt, now knowing what it cost?

Well, dammit, they’d try. First by saving their friend from this dream-eating monster.

Sam rose to his feet. “Okay, let’s go. Walking will help shake off some of the chill.”

Dean begrudgingly nodded and backed away from Cas, who hauled himself up with a grunt. Tossing his soiled shirt on the ground, Dean picked up his jacket and draped it over his shoulder with a wet slap. Sam took a deep breath, and prepared to trudge into the bowels of Hell.


	8. Don't Swim in the Styx

The temperature did increase the deeper they went into the heart of the mountain. Once again, Sam wondered if a volcano was simmering beneath them, but Cas didn’t seem worried about that. The glow-in-the-dark gypsum crystals continued to light their way. It might have been picturesque if not for where they were.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam asked nervously. “What kinds of things might be waiting for us when we come out the other side?”

Castiel’s mouth set in a grim line. “A lot. And unfortunately, the baku blends in well with the denizens of Hell, which will make tracking it down that much harder.”

“Yeah, we saw it,” Dean said, pausing in the lead to look back. “You didn’t tell us it was one ugly-ass monster.”

Cas cocked his head. “I suppose a chimera sewn together from multiple parts is hideous.”

Sam snorted. When those portions weren’t even the most attractive features of each original composition, there was no “suppose” about it.

“It did give us these though,” he said, pulling one of the spicules from his coat.

Cas frowned. “I doubt the creature simply gave you some of its quills. What did you do?”

Dean laughed under his breath. “I threw a rock at its head and it fired those things like arrows. We simply took advantage and picked up the pieces.”

Castiel came to an abrupt halt, brows knitting together. “The creature is capable of launching projectiles?” He whipped his gaze between the brothers. “Were either of you hurt?”

“Nah,” Dean said quickly, shooting Sam a “keep quiet” look. “Son-of-a-bitch had bad aim. Don’t worry, we’ll still be able to take it down.”

Cas didn’t look convinced, but at least he didn’t try to talk the Winchesters out of helping fight the baku.

It was over an hour before the phosphorescent mineral deposits began to dim as another ambient light filtered into the cave. Their clothes had finally dried, though walking in socks and pant legs stiff from caked mud wasn’t all that pleasant either. Dean slipped his jacket back on.

They emerged from the cavern, stepping into a landscape that was quite moderate compared to the previous ones. Thorny underbrush crawled up the side of the mountain and creeped along the ground. Gnarled trees with wizened branches seemed to curl in on themselves. Everything had a gray tinge, from the stale soil to the slate sky.

It was eerily quiet, and Sam’s eyes kept darting around in search of some monster to jump out at them. “Can you sense the baku, Cas?”

Castiel paused in his trudging, brow pinching in concentration. “It’s difficult,” he finally answered, and reached up to rub his temple.

Sam frowned. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

Dean growled. “No, you’re not. Some psycho porcupine is making a buffet of your head. How much longer before it causes irreparable damage?”

Cas shot Dean a vexed look, shaking his head at the hunter’s lingo. “We should keep going this way.” He started moving again, and Dean half-jogged to match his stride.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

Sam suppressed a sigh. He’d be pretty freaked if he was in Cas’s position, having some dream monster eat away at his mind and being unable to stop it. Add to that the fact Cas was used to being indestructible, plus the memories of Hell, and the guy had a right to be tense.

The bramble eventually gave way to a clearing, and the three stopped on the bank of a broad, wine-dark river. Low-hanging fog with an ocher hue completely shrouded the middle of the waterway, concealing the opposite shore in its yellowish brown haze. Somewhere in its depths a faint fluorescent light bobbed.

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck prickled. “Cas, is this the Styx?”

“The rock band?” Dean asked, craning his neck around. “Where?”

Sam smirked. “No, the river into the underworld.”

“Oh.”

Cas studied the water warily. “Yes, though some of your mythology has it wrong in that it does not border Hell; it is one of its circles.”

“So, Dante had it right?”

Castiel inclined his head. “In some things.”

Dean tossed an annoyed, lost look between them. “Who?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to read a book?”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought dreams could kill me, so you never know.”

“With that logic, you should beware of pie from now on.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“There,” Cas said in a low voice.

Both boys whipped their heads up to follow his gaze, and spotted the baku at the water’s edge, sucking up the river like it was a sheet of rippling silk. And holy shit, the creature had _grown_. It was now the size of a large lion.

Castiel winced, eyes squinting in pain. Sam shot Dean an alarmed look, and lifted his quill like a knife. They needed to kill this thing now.

“Be careful,” Cas grunted. “Don’t let it grab you, or it might jump to your mind.”

“But then you’d get a break?”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel glowered at him.

“Guys,” Sam snapped under his breath, jerking his head for them to focus on the baku.

“And don’t touch the river,” Cas said.

Sam glanced briefly at the dark, slopping waves, and the eerie light just beyond the mist. Right, he definitely didn’t want to meet the ferryman.

The three of them started forward, stepping lightly in an effort to sneak up on the monster. It seemed pretty absorbed in its meal, plus Sam and Dean hadn’t given it much reason to fear them during their first encounter. They circled around, Dean to its far side, Cas at its rear, and Sam to its right, hemming the baku in on all sides. The creature finally stopped slurping and narrowed its eyes at Sam, then slowly angled its head to take in Dean. Cas was out of visual range, but the baku’s nostrils flared, and Sam wondered how good its sense of smell was.

Water dribbled down its chin and tusks as they all stood, waiting to see who would make the first move. There weren’t many vulnerable spots on the thing—three-foot spicules lined its main body like armor, and those tusks protected the neck. Sam was feeling less confident with his twenty-inch stake.

The chimera chittered, and the quills down its back shivered before shooting upright.

“Duck!” Sam threw himself to the ground a second before the spines fired. Two whizzed over his head, and then he was up and running, hoping the projectile defense was a one-time deal, or at least that the baku would need time to “reload.”

The beast roared and swung its head at Sam. He skidded to a stop to avoid the tusks, but slashed his weapon for good measure. Dean darted in from the other side and stabbed at the creature’s exposed flank. He must have hit his mark, because the baku shrieked and whirled toward him, leaving Sam an opening. He lunged, driving his spike into the shoulder. It sank through muscle halfway, and the baku lashed back around with a snap of its jaws. Sam staggered back, leaving the stake embedded. He pulled the backup from his jacket.

In his peripheral vision, he spotted Cas scooping up some of the recently fired spines and jamming them back into the creature’s rear—pointed end first of course.

The baku howled and sloshed into the river to escape. Spittle flew from its mouth with a savage hiss. The three of them stood spaced along the bank, at an apparent stalemate. Judging by the distribution of its mass, Sam didn’t think the chimera was equipped for swimming, and they couldn’t go in after it.

The baku shot each of them baleful glares, its body heaving with labored breaths. Then its gaze zeroed in on Castiel, and yellow eyes flashed with malice. Opening its maw wide, the creature plunged its snout into the water and clamped its jaws together with a resounding crack.

Cas flinched and dropped to one knee, bracing his head with both hands.

_Shit!_

The baku charged out of the river toward him. Sam was closer, and he sprinted the eight feet to knock Castiel out of the way. The baku’s tusks scooped underneath him, catching Sam’s chest and knees. With a toss of its head, the beast chucked him over its back into the air. Wind whooshed around him before he plummeted into the Styx.

Cloying water rushed into his mouth and nose, surging down his throat and into his lungs. Sam sputtered and flailed his arms in search of the surface. The murky gray current ebbed around him in a gyrating whirl that tossed him back and forth until he had no idea which way was up. Kicking against the undertow, Sam twisted around. A scream tore from his throat in a whoosh of air bubbles as he came face to face with a wispy, wraith-like woman. Her eyes were empty sockets, hair floating about her face like cobwebs. She reached a bony hand toward him.

He tried to swim away, only to collide with other shapes and figures, all thin, waifish phantoms. They clawed gnarled fingers at his arms, legs, and torso.

_“Abomination,”_ a susurrus whispered.

He wriggled around, another burst of precious air escaping from his lips in a flurry of bubbles.

_“Boy with demon blood.”_

Their hisses slithered through his mind, wracking his body with shudders. Sam tried to push them away, but they pawed all the more fiercely at him.

_“You belong with us.”_

_“Abomination.”_

_“Lucifer’s chosen.”_

_“Hell is your home.”_

_“It’s what you deserve.”_

_“You’ll always end up here.”_

His lungs began to burn and white spots flashed across his vision. He flailed less, his limbs going limp and flaccid. Sam closed his eyes as his head tipped back. The Styx swirled around him, rocking him gently as it carried him home.

* * *

“Sam!” Dean watched in horror as his brother was caught up in the baku’s tusks and thrown through the air. Sam hit the water with a loud splat, and then Dean was running. But the baku had turned toward Cas, who was sprawled on the ground only a few feet from it, shaking his head in a daze.

_Dammit!_

Dean adjusted his course, brandishing his last stake. He launched himself at the creature’s side. Its coat of quills lay flat now in an attempt to shield itself, but there were gaps from where it had shed several barbs already. Dean drove the one he held between the thin plates and into the monster’s hip.

The baku shrieked and whipped around, flinging Dean aside. He hit the ground with a roll, grunting as pain radiated up his elbow. As he flipped onto his stomach, his eyes widened to find the baku charging toward him. Dean flung his arms up to protect his head, but the brute didn’t trample him; it ran past, fleeing into the brambles.

He stared after it for a brief stunned moment before remembering Sam. Lurching to his feet, Dean spun around. His heart dropped into his stomach when there was no sign of his brother or Cas.

“Cas? Sam!” Dean swept his gaze across the brown-tinted water, but couldn’t remember where Sam had gone in. Terror sent his heart into overdrive. Everything was quiet except for the softly lapping waves and blood rushing in his ears.

“Sam!”

Sloshing sounded to his left, and he twisted around so fast he almost fell. Cas was slogging out of the river, dragging a lifeless Sam by the arms. Dean spurred into a run, reaching them just as Castiel pitched backward and both he and Sam fell on the shore.

Dean dropped down next to Sam and gripped his brother’s shoulders. “Sam? Sammy!” Was he breathing? They were in a friggin’ dream world, what did breathing even mean? Dean frantically pressed two fingers to Sam’s neck, searching for a pulse.

Cas was slouched over on Sam’s other side, wheezing as water dripped down his nose and chin. His eyes were half-lidded and glossy with fear.

_Dammit, no._

Dean interlocked his fingers and pressed his palms to Sam’s chest. He thrust down, counting a steady rhythm. _One. Two. Three._

“Don’t make me kiss you,” he growled.

Sam’s back suddenly arched as he sucked in a gasping breath. Sputtering followed, and Dean quickly turned him onto his side as he coughed up frothy liquid. Dean braced his shaking shoulders until Sam had expelled all the water, and then eased him back.

“Sam?”

His brother blinked and jerked his head around. “Dean? What happened?”

He rocked back, running a hand over his hair. “You went swimming in the damn river, Sam. After Cas _told_ you not to.”

Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows, pausing as another series of coughs wracked his chest. He rubbed his face and glanced at the Styx. A haunted look flashed through his eyes, and he quickly looked away.

Dean’s guard went up. “Sam? You okay?” There had to be a reason Cas had said not to touch the water.

His brother gave himself a small shake. “There were people…souls…in there. They were dragging me down with them. They…” His voice hitched.

“They what?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Nothing.” Sam’s brow furrowed at Dean’s dry clothes. “How’d…” He trailed off as he twisted around and saw Cas sitting behind him, equally soaked. The angel looked ready to fall over.

“Whoa, hey, man.” Sam reached out to brace Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean wanted to call Sam on his evasion, but it would have to wait. Cas’s pallor had taken on a ghostly hue, and Dean didn’t know how much longer the angel could hold out.

“That baku really took a bite out of you that time, didn’t it?” he asked, scooting around to grip Cas’s other shoulder.

“It was…unexpected,” he rasped.

“We really need to find a way to gank this thing,” he growled. “It’s vulnerable to its own spikes, and the more it throws at us, the less it has protecting its hide.”

“That does…seem to be our only option,” Cas said breathlessly.

“Well, I lost all mine,” Dean said. “Sam?”

His brother patted the inside of his jacket. “I got one left.”

Dean looked around, spotting one of the three-foot ones that’d been fired. It wouldn’t be as wieldy since the sides weren’t sharp, only the tip, but it was better than nothing. He picked it up, and then he and Sam helped pull Cas to his feet. The angel swayed, blinking as though having trouble seeing.

“Dude, you gonna make it?”

After a moment, Cas pulled his shoulders back, a fiery stubbornness in his eye. “Yes.”

Dean held back a snort. At least he was fighting.

“Thanks, Cas, for saving my life,” Sam said, and then let out a sigh. “We’re all wet again.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “It is quite uncomfortable.”

Dean wanted to laugh, but since he was still dry, he figured it best to keep his amusement private. “The baku ran off that way,” he pointed.

They headed back into the brush and away from the creepy river. A trail of black blood drops glistened on the pewter gray ground. At least the thing could be wounded, and they had been holding their own in the scuffle; if it hadn’t been for the Styx, they might have been able to kill it. Next time though. Dean was getting really tired of this Hell safari.

They navigated around tall briar bushes and thorny weeds. Interspersed throughout, knolls ranging from ant hill size to pitcher’s mounds belched fetid fumes into the air. Ruddy billows and mustard puffs oozed into the sky, the only color in this drab landscape.

A bird’s caw sounded on the wind, followed by a raucous chorus of other croaks. Castiel stiffened and began whipping his head around. “We need to run, _now_.”

There was a heavy thud of a boot stomping on the ground, and a deep voice reverberated from behind them. “It’s too late for that.”


	9. Tarnished Wings

Sam spun at the sound of the voice, and his blood chilled. Behind them, standing eight feet tall, was the demon from the marsh. The Goliath figure pulled back his hood, revealing skin black as tar, but hard and cracked like igneous rock with molten fire coursing under the surface. His eyes smoldered with brimstone, and two thick ram horns sat atop his head.

“Moloch,” Cas whispered.

Sam inched closer to the angel, also lowering his voice. “Uh, is that the Monstrosity?”

Castiel swallowed hard and nodded.

_Shit_.

“Angel,” the demon sneered, and took a step forward. Sam instinctively shrunk back. He suddenly realized how most people probably felt next to his height—Moloch towered over them.

“You thought you could escape, but this is my realm.”

Sam shot a panicked look at Dean, who was rotating the three-foot baku quill in his hand nervously. They did not need this right now. They’d barely just recovered from the skirmish with the baku, which was their real target. That’s what they needed to focus on, not entertaining Hellboy here.

“You’re a figment,” Castiel said through gritted teeth.

The demon’s lip curled. “Is that so?”

With a flick of his wrist, the bushes around them began writhing. Sam stiffened just as several vines lashed out to coil around his arms, legs, and torso. A sharp cry slipped from his lips when the brittle twine slithered up to encircle his neck, barbs slicing through tender flesh. He couldn’t reach the stake in his jacket, not without shredding his skin further.

To his left, Dean and Cas had also been ensnared, each of them standing as rigid as Sam while the creepers dug in their hooks. Dozens of minute slashes dotted their necks and faces, leaking crimson onto the ashen roots.

Sam barely registered the cawing of birds overhead until a flock of them swooped down to alight on the branches. Dean let out a terrified curse, and Sam nearly tore his jugular as he recoiled from the ghastly animals—the crows’ bodies had shrunken heads of old women, wrinkled faces with wispy cobwebs of gray hair and shark teeth. Croaking, one hopped close and began pecking a beaked nose at Sam’s hair. His pulse ratcheted up, and he clenched his jaw against the pain and terror as more harpies closed in around him.

Moloch strode toward Castiel, and with a wave of his hand, the fowls perched on the angel scattered. “You’re too late, you know. The Righteous Man has already broken.”

Cas lifted his chin to look up at the demon, not even wincing as thorns lacerated his throat and fresh blood welled up. “You’re wrong. Dean Winchester was saved.”

Moloch scoffed and cast a glance at the Winchesters. “Saved? Look where you are. You didn’t save him; you brought him right back here to die like the cur he is.”

The vines coiling about Castiel constricted, and he sucked in a pained gasp.

“Face it,” the demon continued. “You failed. You always fail.”

Cas fisted his hand so tight his knuckles whitened.

“You can go to Hell!” Dean shouted. One of the harpies squawked and jabbed at his ear in response. “Ungh, get off, bitch!”

Moloch ignored Dean, keeping his gaze trained on Cas. His lips curled in a cruel smile. “Would you like to see the broken wings of the other angels you failed to save?” Slowly, the demon pulled a necklace from beneath his cloak. Hemp strands wove a lattice pattern, each intersection fastened with a piece of bone and a blackened, withered feather.

Sam shot his brother a terrified look. Dean couldn’t move. Neither could he. Shit, they were screwed.

Moloch admired his handiwork. “It’s quite an impressive torc. Though I regret not getting the pretty one’s—the one with lavender eyes. She tasted delicious.” He lifted a feather to his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back and sighing in pleasure. His gaze lolled back to Castiel. “Yet another you couldn’t save.”

Cas’s shoulders were visibly shaking, and a sheen of moisture had gathered in his eyes. Sam’s stomach twisted into knots. What the hell was the demon talking about? An angel that died? From what he’d seen, lots of angels had perished during the siege into Hell…but dammit, those were Cas’s brothers and sisters, before they’d turned their backs on him.

“And now here you are again,” Moloch crooned. “Fallen. Pathetic.”

Sam ground his teeth together. Something wasn’t right. If this was a mere memory, the demon shouldn’t be talking about things that had happened after Castiel’s journey into Hell.

Moloch leaned forward, pressing his face close to Cas’s. The angel grimaced, unable to wrench away. “You’ve endangered your charges once more, and now they’ll both end up in Hell, the sinner and the abomination.” Moloch’s steamy breath puffed across Castiel’s brow. “You deserve to go into the pit with them.”

Cas finally dropped his gaze, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“It’s not true, Cas!” Dean called, yelping as a harpy nipped him again. “Don’t listen to the bastard.”

But Castiel didn’t respond. He wasn’t even holding himself with his proud, stoic, I’m-an-angel-of-the-Lord-and-you’re-demon-scum bearing. In fact, he’d fallen alarmingly despondent.

Sam’s pulse pounded erratically. What was going on? This wasn’t part of the nightmare; it couldn’t be. It was different.

He glanced down at the thorny brambles entangling him. Dammit, if he could only get free! But the barbs were slowly shredding his skin like grated cheese. One caught his cheek and split it open. Hot blood seeped out to dribble down his jaw.

He whipped his gaze around in the frantic hope that he’d find a source of salvation, maybe even more dream versions of angels…and then went rigid when he spotted the baku in the background. The creature had grown even more, and was currently gnawing on something shiny and golden between its paws. Sam sucked in a breath. _No_.

“Son-of-a-bitch, _Dean_!” He flicked his eyes toward the baku, which was several yards away. Quirking a confused brow, his brother followed his gaze, and a startled sound escaped Dean’s lips as realization dawned on him as well.

“Cas!” he shouted. “Cas, look at me!”

The angel slowly lifted his head toward them, dragging several barbs to crisscross the angry red welts he already bore. He didn’t even flinch. Sam’s breath froze in his lungs at the hollowness etched across Castiel’s face.

“I’m sorry, Dean. Sorry, Sam.”

“Cas, it’s the baku! It’s eating your hope. You have to fight it!” Sam yelled, and gritted his teeth against the sharp stabs the harpies inflicted on him in return.

Moloch let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Fight? With what? Your grace is weak; you can hardly be called an angel anymore. Your father has abandoned you. Your family has abandoned you. The only place for you to go is down, down into the pit.”

“You shut the hell up!” Dean shouted.

“Cas!” Sam’s heart jackhammered in his chest. They couldn’t let this happen. “ _We’re_ your family, and we’re right here! Don’t give in!”

But Cas didn’t answer. Moloch snapped his fingers, and the vines slithered back, dropping Castiel to his knees on the ground. With a sinister leer, the demon threw his cloak off, exposing a bare chest of brawny, corded muscle. A scabbard slung across his back, and he reached over his shoulder to pull out a jet-black broadsword. His eyes flared with feverish anticipation. Red-hot flames burst along the blade, fiery tongues licking the air.

“I hate angels,” Moloch spat. “I will strip your wings to the bone and spit-roast them over my hearth.” Standing over Castiel, he lifted the blazing sword above his head.

“Cas!”

* * *

Castiel was drowning. _Fallen. Weak. Useless._ Why had he been fighting so hard? Nothing he did was ever enough. He’d been a terrible angel, doubtful and disobedient. Cursed by his brothers. Cursed by his father.

He barely registered the brutish demon drawing his sword and igniting it with hellfire. It didn’t matter; it was what he deserved. He had nothing left to offer. _Worthless. Fallen._

_“Cas? I don’t know if you can hear me—dammit, I’m praying to God you can.”_

Castiel looked up at the faint spark pulsing in the back of his mind. Among the cacophony of other voices, it echoed with the clarity of musical chimes.

_“You’re a fighter, Cas, a freakin’ angel of the Lord, no matter what this douchebag says. You never give up. Sam and I are right here, and we need you.”_

Dean? Sam? Of course, Castiel was letting them down again. He didn’t even feel the burn of shame that they were watching his final fall from grace. He wasn’t feeling much of anything anymore, just a numb acceptance of what was about to happen.

_“You son-of-a-bitch, you are not going to let it end this way. Sam and I stormed through Hell to find you—don’t make us lose you after everything.”_

Castiel frowned. That wasn’t right. The Winchesters didn’t lay siege to Hell for him; it was backwards.

Dean’s voice became panicked, stirring a long-lost semblance of protectiveness in Castiel. _“Please, Cas, get up. You have to get up!”_

Dragging himself from the overwhelming morass of accusations and guilt bogging him down, Castiel slowly lifted his head, vision focusing on the demon towering over him, prepared to deliver a killing blow. Terror spiked through him, not for his own life, but for Dean and Sam. If Castiel died, they would too. They were trapped in this hellish dream because of him, because they were trying to save _him_.

But Castiel didn’t need saving. The Winchesters were his charges; he was _their_ guardian. It wasn’t their job to get him out of Hell; it was the other way around.

The blade arced down, and with a flare of his wings, Castiel leaped. He reappeared behind Moloch, swaying slightly as he caught his balance. The demon’s sword thudded into the ground, spraying up speckles of charred dirt and embers.

Several yards away, the baku snarled as its snack pulsated brilliant white, too hot and radiant to handle. The creature ran off into the thicket, and Castiel felt his old strength surge through him, pushing back the sea of despair. How could he have let himself succumb so easily? Well, no more. He slid his angel blade from his sleeve and gripped it tightly.

Moloch wrenched his sword from the earth and turned, eyes seething with molten fury. Inhaling deeply, a shudder wracked his body as the air behind him undulated. Sharp, angular silhouettes wavered into view and solidified, gradually extending into massive, taut leathery sails streaked with fulvous red veins.

He bared his teeth. “You want to fly? We can fly.” The dragon-like wings gave a tremendous flap, stirring up dust as Moloch rose several feet into the air. Folding his wings back, he shot forward.

Castiel threw up his angel blade to block. The celestial alloy of his sword clashed with the demon’s hellfire in a thunderous crack, and his shoes slid backward through the dirt a few inches from the impact. A whoomp of colliding magic reverberated down Castiel’s arm into his true form. The air trembled from the shockwave, and with a rending of fabric, his wings forcefully manifested.

Moloch hissed and squinted at the brightness of them, pure white pinions arching out from Castiel’s back. Even in the dim atmosphere of Hell’s smog, opalescent flecks shimmered through the striated feathers like rainbow slivers.

Castiel heard sharp gasps from Sam and Dean. In truth, he was just as surprised to see the old state of his wings. And terrified to be so exposed.

Spittle flew from Moloch’s mouth. “I will snuff them out!”

He bore down on Castiel, their blades locked at the hilt. Hellfire tongues lapped at the angel’s face with scorching heat. Biting back a cry, Castiel unfurled his wings and vaulted backward into the air, catching an updraft that took him several meters up. Moloch turned slowly to track his direction, and with a great beating of webbed sails, rose to tear after him.

Castiel banked right and careened around Moloch’s rear. He had more agility than the hulking demon, but he was also in his vessel. The edges of his overcoat flapped about his legs, and the ripped seams around the two holes over his shoulder blades tugged and pinched the skin of his wings’ coracoids. And he was still wet from the Styx, which added extra weight to bear. All of which he could do nothing about. His grace was pulsing through his manifested wings, and he couldn’t afford the concentrated moment fixing his clothes would require.

Castiel slashed his blade across the demon’s exposed back, slicing through the knot of his heinous trophy necklace. The frayed hemp with the tarnished feathers fluttered to the ground. The demon would never add another angel’s wings to it; Castiel would see to that.

With a snarl, Moloch swung his broadsword around. Though his blade was longer, he had to twist in order to get full range, and Castiel had already spun away. But some of the raging flames jumped through the air and skimmed the edge of his wing. Searing pain cascaded down the pinions. The smell of burnt feathers pervaded his nose and throat, threatening to choke him.

Castiel’s singed wing folded in a spasm, and he nosedived. His other one flapped frantically to regain control, jolting him violently as he fought to stretch out his injured wing. With a gasp, he managed to extend it, and both spans caught a gust of wind, slowing his fall.

Moloch loomed up before him, the veins under his gristly muscles burning like magma. Castiel barely had time to thrust his blade up to parry a blow, and steel clanged with another concussive clap. He gritted his teeth against the force. Lightning spat from the brands, forking down to strike the ground. The harpies perched on Dean and Sam squawked and took flight, fleeing into the thicket.

Above the din of screeching blades and air rushing around him, Castiel heard the boys shouting, urging him on. And still beyond all that, deep in the recesses of a quiet place in his essence, a softer, crystal clear voice rang.

_“Go, Cas!”_

Spurred by the need to protect the Winchesters, Castiel flung himself backward in a flip, swinging his legs up to kick Moloch under the chin. The demon’s head snapped back. As Castiel righted himself from the somersault, Moloch reached up to rub his jaw, eyes narrowing in fury.

“Filthy angel,” he hissed.

Several of Dean’s favorite insults sprung to Castiel’s mind, but before he could consider lobbing one back, the demon thrust his sword out, and a stream of fire shot forward.

Tucking his wings in, Castiel pitched to the side and plunged toward the ground. Just before he would crash, his wings unfurled, catching the air currents that propelled him back up into the sky. In the back of his mind, he heard Dean’s startled oath at nearly being clipped by some primary feathers.

Moloch swiveled to face him, but Castiel had built up speed. He zinged up past the demon, slashing his angel blade at one of the taut, leathery wings. A tear rent through thick tissue, and Moloch bellowed. His fiery sword arced around, but Castiel had already veered away.

One of the knolls below suddenly burped a cloud of noxious gas into the air. Castiel couldn’t adjust his trajectory before the sulfurous fumes enveloped one of his wings. A scream tore from his throat as it burned like acid, and the wing buckled. He plummeted, streaking through another eruption of foul vapor that blackened his other wing. Castiel hit the ground in a spray of sediment and crumpled pinions. Pain exploded throughout his body as bones splintered and muscle tore, only dampened by the searing sensation in his wings.

Gasping for breath, Castiel curled in on himself, trying to wrap his grace in a tight ball, away from the torment and horror. It wasn’t real. Not this time. Just a memory. But the agony was all-encompassing. Whether it happened a year ago or two seconds ago, the result was the same: the revolting fires of Hell—of evil—had touched his true form…and branded his wings with their mark for eternity.

The earth beneath him thudded, and Castiel heard the stomp of Moloch’s approach. A meaty hand fisted in his shirt and hauled him up. Castiel gasped, pain shooting along every nerve ending, exploding white spots across his vision. His sullied wings trailed limply down his back.

“Pathetic creature,” Moloch spat. “I will enjoy prolonging your suffering.” With his other hand, the demon reached around and clutched one of the angel’s sooty feathers. Castiel’s eyes rolled back with a spike of pain.

“Cas!”

His eyes snapped open at the frantic voice. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he shifted his gaze to the side where Dean and Sam still stood trapped in the writhing vines. Their wide, terrified eyes ignited a burst of panic within him. Yet they weren’t afraid for themselves. Their gazes begged for him to hold on, to fight.

_“Don’t make us lose you.”_

Castiel turned his focus back to Moloch and rasped, “You…won’t win.”

The demon scoffed. “You can’t defeat me, worthless worm.”

“You forget,” Castiel ground out, struggling to lift his arm. “These are just memories—and I already did.” He thrust his angel blade up into the center of the demon’s chest.

A brilliant white light exploded from Moloch’s mouth, nose, and eyes as he arched back with a deafening scream. The dragon wings snapped taut in a series of rigid spasms. Moloch’s fist loosened, dropping Castiel to the ground. Biting back a wave of blackness, he managed to roll away. A bellow shook the earth a moment before the demon exploded, raining chunks of charcoal tissue and bone across the field.

Everything fell still except for Castiel’s heaving chest as he fought to catch his breath. And then from his left came a low whistle.

“Holy _shit_ , Cas.”

He turned his head toward the Winchesters, and was puzzled to find he couldn’t distinguish between the two blurred shapes. In the back of his mind, he registered the broken bones and lacerated internal organs. His grace was sluggish, but he managed to push it through the worst of the injuries, knitting tissue back together.

Staggering to his feet, Castiel took a stumbling step toward Sam and Dean. He had to free them from the thorns, had to make sure they were alright.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his leg gave out, bringing him down hard on one knee.

“Cas!”

He squeezed his eyes shut against the deluge of pain, but it cascaded over him, bringing with it a curtain of darkness.


	10. The Way I See You

Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the blast of light as Moloch exploded. Grainy bits of rock and bone pelted his face, but he couldn’t wrench his arms free of the thorny vines in order to shield himself. When the bombardment ceased and he opened his eyes, the demon was gone. And there was Cas, kneeling in the middle of a brittle field with angel blade in hand—and holy shit, huge, breathtaking wings.

When Dean had learned that angel wings were supposed to be white, and Castiel’s were a splotchy mix of gray and pitch, he’d been flabbergasted and awed. For one thing, Cas’s charcoal feathers with onyx tipped crescents had been pretty freakin’ spectacular.

But then at the sight of those pure, prismatic wings, Dean had almost forgotten how to breathe. “White” was a paltry description for them. They were glorious, and the way Cas _flew_ …damn, Dean had always known Cas was one tough son-of-a-bitch, warrior of God, but now…

Dean let out a low whistle. “Holy _shit_ , Cas.”

Castiel rose stiffly to his feet, but stumbled in the next step.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, heart stuttering as the angel collapsed.

“Castiel!” Sam called, grunting as he fidgeted under the vines. He threw Dean a panicked look. “What do we do?”

“Hang on.” Dean tweaked his torso slightly, wincing as thorns dug through more flesh. At least since this was a dream, he wouldn’t end up with a bunch of scars, right? He angled the baku spike in his hand to poke at the branches, inserting the tip through one in an effort to puncture the line and weaken it. He’d been working on that before Cas’s wings made an appearance, and then he’d been too captivated by the winged battle.

_“Cas, if you can hear me,”_ he prayed, focusing his intent through the handprint scar on his shoulder. A slight tingle ran through it, weirding him out, but giving him confidence that maybe it was working. _“Just hang on, buddy.”_

Dean had been praying to Cas since Sam realized the baku was stealing Castiel’s hope. He wouldn’t admit to his nerdy brother that he was trying something so ridiculous, as though a stupid scar had some kind of direct line to the angel who’d given it to him. Yet, Cas _had_ snapped out of it and fought back against Moloch. So on that alone, Dean kept talking to his friend through their “bond” or whatever, hoping Castiel could hear him as he worked at the ivy.

_“You hold on, Cas. Don’t you dare give up on us now.”_

He finally lodged the pointed end of the quill through a hole in one of the cords, and pushed the rest of the spike through. Its increasing circumference rent through the fibrous root, snapping it with a twang. The rest of the thorns fell away.

Dean jumped out of the tangled pool, swiping his hands down his arms and chest to rid himself of the phantom feel of slithering. He sucked in air through his teeth. With adrenaline fading fast, all the tiny stinging cuts flared with a vengeance.

He hurried to Sam, who was similarly covered in bright red welts. His brother stood absolutely rigid as Dean sawed through a vine. Once again, it only took breaking one to cause the rest to fall dead.

Sam shuddered as he hopped free, but quickly shook it off as he turned toward Cas. Both brothers sprinted to where he lay, coming to an abrupt halt in front of him.

His wings were still out, one looking practically wilted as it lay down his back and covered his legs. The other was slightly spread out to his right, blackened tips blending with the dirt. The reek of charred feathers filled Dean’s nose, and he watched in horror as a smoky film slowly seeped down Castiel’s wings, snuffing out the multi-colored, opaline rivulets and dulling them to flat silver.

Dean knew Cas’s wings had been tarnished when the angel rescued him from Hell. He’d felt damn guilty when he found out, despite Cas’s assurances that it wasn’t “of import.” Except apparently it _was_. Because Dean had thought “tarnished” meant stained or soiled, maybe just from breathing the toxic air in the pit. But if this entire dream world was constructed from Cas’s memories, then tarnished meant _burned_.

Dean couldn’t move, could only stare at his unconscious friend like an idiot.

Sam finally knelt next to Cas’s head, hands hovering as though afraid to touch him. His clothes and skin were also tattered from the thorny vines, streaks of crimson painting nearly ever inch of him. “Cas, can you hear me?” He rested a hand on the angel’s shoulder. A shudder rippled through Cas, and the extended wing snapped tautly.

Sam jerked his hand back. “Cas, it’s Sam…uh, don’t hit me.”

“Sam?” a muffled rasp responded.

“Yeah, hey.” Sam leaned over to try and catch Castiel’s eye as the angel turned his head, scraping his cheek through dirt. “Can you move?”

It took a prolonged moment, but Cas managed to pull his arms in and push himself up, grunting from the strain. Sam gripped one elbow to help, and Dean finally spurred into action, kneeling down and grabbing the other. Together, they lifted Castiel into a barely upright position. The angel swayed. His pallor had taken on an ashen hue that worried Dean. Even if he’d had a clue how to tend an angel’s wounded wings, Hell didn’t exactly keep first-aid kits on hand.

Cas looked over his shoulder and squinted. With a quivering breath, the wings flickered and disappeared. He started to topple forward again.

“Whoa, hey, take it easy.” Dean braced one hand on Cas’s chest, the other on his shoulder. Frankly, he was a little unnerved about touching the angel’s back. There were two slits in the trench coat and clothes underneath that didn’t _appear_ to be holding wings, but making sense of the whole invisible/ethereal plane thing made Dean’s head hurt.

Castiel’s gaze gradually focused on them, and his expression slipped into a frown. “You’re injured.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not real, remember?”

Cas blinked at him dazedly. Dean’s jaw tightened; his joke didn’t amuse him either. Because all the tiny cuts from the thorns and harpies’ beaks sure stung like a bitch. And if he and Sam were feeling it, he could only imagine how Cas was doing with singed wings. They’d never be able to take on the baku in this condition. Yet the longer they waited, the more chance that the dream devourer would sink its teeth into Cas’s hopes again. Dean was _not_ going to let that happen.

“Can you walk, man?” he asked. “I know you’re probably feeling like crap right now, but we’ve got to find the baku before it does you in.”

“I’ll manage,” Cas wheezed. “The burns…” He paused, face contorting in pain and consternation. “They’re just an echo of a memory. I can get past them.”

Sam caught Dean’s eye, lifting his brows doubtfully. They had no choice though.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, that battle, with Moloch…that really happened, when you came to rescue me?”

Cas’s brow pinched, and he angled his gaze to take in the field of briars. “Yes, though not quite in the same way. There were other angels, many that Moloch killed.”

Dean craned his head to glance at the necklace of charred feathers lying on the ground. _Son-of-a-bitch._

“But that is how your wings got, you know?”

Castiel tipped his head back to study him, as though sensing there was another question behind the one he’d asked. “It was worth it, Dean. Both times.”

A lump settled in his throat. Coughing awkwardly to clear his airway, Dean plastered on a wide smile. “Well, that was some sweet flying there, Cas. I’m gonna start calling you a Blue Angel.”

Castiel quirked his classic confused brow at Dean, which made the hunter’s chest hurt. He’d come too close to losing his best friend.

“My grace is more akin to white light.”

Dean shook his head, feeling a genuine smile tug at his mouth, despite the circumstances.

Sam was grinning too. “I’m glad you snapped out of the baku’s pull just in time.” Looping an arm under the angel’s, he and Dean helped Cas to his feet.

Castiel’s brow furrowed in thought. “It was strange, the depths of those…emotions. And then the utter absence of them…” He tilted his head at Dean. “But then I heard your prayer.”

Dean blinked. “You did? I mean, I’d hoped you would, but I didn’t know for sure.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “It was mostly Sam’s idea.”

Sam shot him a startled look. “What are you talking about?”

Dean rubbed the back of his head. “My scar. I focused on it and prayed as hard as I could.”

Sam’s lips twitched in a smug expression.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “Don’t say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They both froze for a moment before the two brothers burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. When Cas started to stumble without their support, they quickly righted themselves and grabbed his arms. Unfortunately, their quaking was only serving to jostle the already sensitive angel, who winced under their grips. Dean pressed his free fist to his mouth in an attempt to stifle his hysterics.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked worriedly, flicking his gaze back and forth between them. “Perhaps the baku has started devouring your sanity.”

Dean shook his head as his laughter petered out. “We’re fine, Cas. But it is time to gank this thing once and for all.”

He took quick stock of their supplies: one twenty-inch quill and one three-footer. Cas’s angel blade. And a scratched, bleeding, worn trio, two of whom were still sopping wet from their dunk in the Styx. Yeah, this would be a piece of cake.

They trudged off into the underbrush, once more following the baku’s blood trail. It wasn’t a quarter-mile before they left the thorny brambles behind, which Dean was happy about.

Until they crested a low hill and looked down on a huge, stone colosseum, and Dean stopped cold. He knew this place.

The gray stone was crumbling, whole chunks missing from the walls, yet the place stood intact. Barbed wire covered the arched openings lining three levels, and only one set of large, rusted iron doors hung open at the base. To Dean’s horror, he spotted the glint of a metallic spike lying in the threshold. That’s where the baku had gone.

Sam uttered a low curse under his breath. “There are probably demons in there, huh?”

Dean was so paralyzed by fear that it took him a moment to realize Cas hadn’t answered Sam, but was studying Dean carefully. He swallowed hard, trying to will his pulse to calm down. _Pull it together, man. It’s not real. You’re not really in Hell._

Except, he was, for Dean knew exactly what was through those doors— _his_ worst nightmare.

He ran a hand down his chin. “Listen, why don’t you and Cas stay here.”

“What?” Sam sputtered. “The baku is down there, and we need to kill it in order to get out of this hellhole.”

“So I’ll go kill it.”

“ _Dean_ , the thing is growing. It’s nearly the size of a buffalo. You can’t take it on alone. Plus the place has gotta be swarming with demons!”

“Yeah, and Cas isn’t in any shape to go up against them, and someone’s gotta stay with him.” Dean hated putting this on the angel, especially after everything Cas had gone through, but he couldn’t allow Sam to go down there, at any cost.

Sam shook his head in growing aggravation. “What is your deal? Our best shot at defeating the baku is to work together!”

“You don’t need to see what’s in there!” Dean took a step back, blanching at how easily he’d lost his temper.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “How would you even know what’s in there? It’s Cas’s dream…” His eyes widened and he shot his gaze toward the colosseum again, then at Cas, who had remained silent and was now staring pensively at the ground. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Sam asked softly. “That’s where Cas found you.”

Dean looked away. He couldn’t take this. He’d lost so much, he couldn’t lose the last thing on this damn earth that he had. When he spoke again, his voice came out raw. “Sam, you don’t need to see me like that…what I did, what I was becoming. Please, just let me go on alone.”

Castiel looked up then, expression sympathetic. “Dean, you do not have to face those memories again. I can go ahead. You and Sam wait here.”

“No, man. You’re fading fast.” Cas was _not_ going to sacrifice himself for Dean again. He’d come to rescue the angel, and dammit, that’s what he would do.

Cas’s mouth thinned in a tight line. “Still, this is my fight.”

“No,” Sam interrupted sharply. “It’s all our fight. Because we’re family, and family watches each other’s backs. So we’re not splitting up.” He jabbed a finger at Dean to stop his protest. “I don’t care what’s in there. I don’t care what you were forced to do in Hell. You already told me what happened, Dean, and I don’t hate or blame you for any of it.”

“It’ll be different if you see it. Sammy, please, I can’t…I can’t take it if you start looking at me differently.” His voice cracked. “Like I’m a monster.”

“And I’m telling you that I won’t. You’re my brother, Dean. And you’re not a monster.”

Dean shook his head. Sam didn’t know; he didn’t know what it was like, all the gory details full of blood and entrails and screams. If he did, he’d never be able to scrub those images from his mind, just as Dean couldn’t. Sam would have nightmares of Dean torturing souls, and they would escalate until Sam was the one on the rack and his older brother was carving into him like a Christmas ham. And then Sam would never be able to stomach looking at Dean again. Their relationship, which had experienced its bumps in the past, would be irreparably damaged.

Sam started down the hillock toward the colosseum.

“Sammy, don’t,” Dean pleaded. He wanted to run after his brother, to wrench him away from the godforsaken place, but his legs wouldn’t move, paralyzed by the terror that haunted him ever since climbing out of that grave.

“Dean, _come on_.” Sam shot him a sharp look that normally would have elicited a snarky retort.

He wavered though, skin crawling with dread. Then Dean heard a soft sound from Cas, and he looked over to see the angel rubbing his forehead, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach.

Dammit, he couldn’t let his own fears and insecurities get the better of him, not while his best friend was dying. The place was huge anyway; maybe they’d find the baku before ever coming across Dean’s worst nightmare.

Taking hold of Castiel’s elbow, Dean started leading him down the knoll…into true Hell. Sam waited for them to catch up before he resumed walking. He paused in the doorway to pick up the spike, which was now the size of a baseball bat. Sam hefted it and lifted his brows.

Yeah, not good.

Dean glanced at Cas, who was slagging beside them. The lines around his eyes crinkled with pain, and his breathing came more heavily. It was difficult to tell whether his intense expression also held stubborn resolve, or if he was slowly succumbing to despair again right in front of them. Dammit, where was the baku?

They crept silently down the corridor, oddly devoid of demons. But then, guards weren’t needed in this place. Smut and filth smeared the floor and walls in shades of tar, burnt umber, and sewage green. Scuff marks showed where prisoners had futilely fought against being dragged toward the torture chambers.

Sobs echoed from behind closed doors: souls waiting their turn on the rack. Maybe his dream counterpart was locked behind one, taking one of the brief respites Alastair gave his pupils when they performed well. After all, the art of twisting souls into demons was a slow, simmering process.

Sam paused at an intersection ahead. With a silent flick of his eyes, he headed right, heading down the larger passage. The baku was probably getting too large to fit indoors.

Dean was so focused on making sure Cas was keeping up, that he didn’t realize Sam’s next turn had brought them into the inner ring of the colosseum, the one that hemmed the gladiator pit…and held the torture stalls.

Dean froze, eyes riveted on the sight before him. _No_.

In one of the open stone pens, standing over a poor soul strapped to a rack, was himself. He was painted in blood—not his own—of various shades and stages of drying. A knife in his hand dripped viscid crimson onto the rust splattered floor. Dead eyes bored into his victim, his expression stony as he carved into the woman’s ribs and made her squeal like a gutted pig. Dean felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

Then, with a jolt of horror, he saw Sam standing a few feet to the side. Before he could lunge to pull his brother away from the grotesque scene, however, a striking glow caught his eye. He snapped his gaze back, transfixed by the anomaly. There was no light in Hell.

Yet, underneath the blood and grime was a luminescent glimmer, shining deep within Dean’s chest. Though small, it radiated with resilient strength. Each time he slashed the knife down through flesh, that spark pulsed as though in defiance of being snuffed out.

A hand settled on his shoulder and Dean flinched, whipping his head around to find Cas. The angel was looking at him with gentle sympathy that made his chest constrict.

“These are my memories, Dean. This is the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you.”

He couldn’t form words. His greatest fear was to be exposed for the monster he truly was, deep down. That Sam would see it. But this…he didn’t know what to do with the vision before him.

Sam appeared at his other shoulder, and a pained sob lodged in Dean’s throat.

“Sam, don’t look—”

“Cas is right, Dean.” There was no trace of fear or revulsion in Sam’s eyes, and god how that hurt. Hurt because the one thing Dean was terrified of losing—his brother—was still standing by him, even as in the background, another version of himself disemboweled some poor soul.

Sam stepped around to Dean’s front, blocking out the scene. “Hey, look at me. Hell never broke you. It tried, and maybe it came close, but it didn’t.”

Sam’s eyes pleaded with Dean to believe it as wholeheartedly as he did. “You’re _good_ , Dean. Not evil, not a monster.” He glanced down with a half-broken snort. “If anyone has a black mark on their soul, it’s me.”

Dean snapped out of his self-absorbed wallowing. How could Sam look behind him at the torture stall and even _think_ that? Sam was the most decent person Dean knew, way more caring and sensitive than he was. Yeah, his brother had made mistakes, but always out of the best intentions.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Dean growled.

Sam gave him a sad smile. Dammit, where was this coming from? Had the baku somehow gotten its teeth into him too?

“Sam,” Cas spoke up with his commanding, angel-of-the-Lord tone. “I can imagine what the souls in the Styx whispered to you, but I assure you, your soul shines as brightly as Dean’s.”

Dean stiffened. Souls in the Styx? What the hell had they been telling his little brother? Son-of-a-bitch, was that what he’d been hiding earlier?

“Sam,” he pressed. “If demonic bastards have been whispering things in your ear, it’s all damn lies.”

Sam shook his head, looking unconvinced. “Come on, Dean. I’m _Lucifer’s_ vessel.” He glanced at Cas ruefully. “An abomination, remember?”

Grief pinched Cas’s expression. “By Heaven’s standards, perhaps. But one of the things I’ve learned since rebelling is that Heaven can be wrong. Virtue and worthiness do not always come in pure, untainted vessels. Humans are flawed, and therein lies your beauty, for you try.” Castiel looked down. “I no longer believe in the complete righteousness of angels. Some of them have become whitewashed tombs—pristine on the outside, but rotting within.”

Dean shifted his weight awkwardly, not sure what to say after that. His brother _did_ try to make up for his mistakes. Dean supposed he was trying to as well. And if he could forgive Sam all his past screw-ups, even the epic ones, and still love him…then maybe what Dean had done in Hell couldn’t erase Sam’s devotion to him either.

The woman’s pleas for his doppelganger to stop reached his ears, and Dean glanced at Sam to see whether a trace of disgust would finally show through. But his brother’s gaze was angled down, mouth set in a thoughtful mien.

“You know, Cas,” Sam said. “Your wings may not be pristine anymore, but you were never a whitewashed tomb. No matter what demons—or the other angels—may say, the fact that you’re falling doesn’t change the way Dean and I see you either.”

Dean started. Leave it to his brother to cut right to the heart of something—and remind Dean what was truly important. Cas had seen him at his worst, and while Dean didn’t remember their true first encounter, when the angel had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, Cas had been loyal from the beginning, even if it’d taken him a little while to act on it.

“Sam’s right, Cas. You’re so much more than any of your angel brothers will ever be.”

Castiel cocked his head, that blessed, confused look on his face. God, he could be thick sometimes, so focused on taking care of them that he neglected to take his own advice. But he was learning. They were family, the three of them. With all their flaws and chinks and baggage. And when it all came down to it, Dean didn’t think he’d have it any other way.

He cleared his throat and waved an irritated hand. “Okay, we’ve all had our nice little chick flick moment; now can we go bag ourselves a baku?”

Sam smirked. “I’m down for that.”

“Down where?” Cas asked, and then nearly doubled over with a grunt, clutching his head.

“Cas!” Dean grabbed his elbow to steady him, just as a tremendous boom shook the ground. The torture scene behind them bent and wavered, the apparition of Dean flattening like a cardboard cutout. A forceful slurping sound filled the air, and the entire stall plus its spectral inhabitants were sucked into a vortex.

Dean and Sam seized Cas and started running for the nearest door. They stumbled into open space, the gladiator ring, and froze at the sight of the baku gobbling up an entire row of torture pens. It swung its head, massive tusks smashing through stone walls and crumbling them with the might of a wrecking ball.

Dean’s jaw nearly dropped. The baku was now the size of a two-ton super duty truck.


	11. All For One and One For All

Castiel stared uncomprehendingly at the baku. It stood seven feet tall now, with a length of nineteen feet from snout to tail. Tipping its head back, the chimera finished gobbling up the corner section of the gladiator ring, swallowing the Dean apparition. Castiel’s memories of Hell had fed the beast more than he could have anticipated. The baku let out a loud, satisfied belch, and a stab of pain lanced through Castiel’s head. Dean had been correct—he wouldn’t last much longer. Which meant neither would the Winchesters.

“Uh,” Dean stammered. “You want to try that baku-san thing again, Sam?”

“I think we’re way beyond that,” the younger Winchester replied in a hushed voice.

Castiel rolled his shoulder, wincing at the echo of pain in his wings and the motley of other injuries to his body and grace. He could not see a way to defeat the creature.

Sam eyed the beast warily. It had turned to begin demolishing the rear wall of the arena. “If we get it to shed more spikes, that’ll open up vulnerable spots we can get a shot at.”

“If we don’t get skewered in the process,” Dean grunted. “Those things will punch soccer ball size holes in us.”

Sam threw his brother a dirty look. “You have a better idea?”

Dean didn’t respond, but his glower was answer enough.

Castiel drew his angel blade. “I will antagonize it.”

“No, we’ll do this together.” Dean turned to Sam, mouth set in a grim line. “Ok, first we egg it into going all Sonic the Hedgehog on us—” He raised a hand at Castiel’s confused expression. “Then we shish kabob it.”

Castiel quirked a brow, but didn’t bother to ask what Dean meant; he assumed “shish kabob” was another hunter vernacular for killing something. Though he had no idea who Sonic Hedgehog was, or how a tiny, piglike mammal would be of use in this situation.

Sam swept his gaze around the stadium and made a small noise of discovery. “Now that’s what we need.” He pointed to a dark alcove where several weapons’ racks held iron axes, maces, and spears.

Dean strode over and eyed the assortment. Castiel recognized the detached mask that fell over the hunter’s face as he tried to push down memories. Castiel was fairly certain Dean had never fought in the ring; he hadn’t been in Hell long enough for that. The torture came first, and only after a bloodlust had been nurtured for a century or more were souls pitted against each other. But he had likely been forced to watch.

Dean grabbed a pitchfork and passed it to Sam, then two spears, handing one to Castiel. “Let’s go poke the wasps’ nest.”

“And try not to get stung,” Sam added.

Castiel gave a subtle head shake; he was too tired to keep trying to parse out the boys’ metaphors.

Together, the three of them approached the baku’s rear. The spicules along its back were laid flat, and the metallic edges grated along each other as the massive body swished and jiggled with its munching.

Sam got only as close as he needed before jabbing his pitchfork at the chimera. The prongs struck between the sheeted quills, but didn’t puncture flesh. Dean moved in next with his spear, but the arrowhead seemed to bounce off the baku’s hip as though made of rubber. The hunter’s face screwed up in consternation and he stabbed again. Angling a doubtful look at his own weapon, Castiel also thrust the pointed tip at the creature, but it pinged off the tough hide without leaving a mark. None of their prods elicited a response from the baku either.

After several more futile attempts, they backed away.

“I believe we are inconsequential to it now,” Castiel said wearily.

“That, or it’s just immune to dream weapons.” Sam tossed his pitchfork aside.

Dean lobbed his spear at the creature, but it ricocheted off the pelt like a toothpick and clattered on the ground. “Hey, ass-hat!”

His brother snorted. “Yeah, that’ll get its attention.”

“Feel free to chime in, Sam.”

The younger Winchester threw his hands up. “The thing’s only vulnerable to its own quills! But unless you know where they stash a hammer, I don’t see how we’re gonna get those to do much damage.” Sam gestured to the three and four-foot stakes lying on the ground where they’d set them. They were too large and bulky for the Winchesters to use effectively, but perhaps Castiel could.

He walked—or hobbled, much to his chagrin—to the spikes and picked up the largest one. Gripping the narrow point, he tested the weight and balance. Then he arched his arm back and threw. The skewer flew end over end through the air with a whistle before the sharp tip sank two feet into the baku, just above the hip.

The beast reared up with a screech that shook the colosseum. An ear-rattling chitter followed, and its quills shot upright, vibrating with coiled energy. In the next moment, they detached to zing through the air in multiple directions.

Hands grabbed Castiel and thrust him down a split second before the prongs soared overhead. Rock cracked and splintered as the metallic projectiles struck the surrounding walls. One barb went clean through an archway, collapsing the corridor under an avalanche of stone.

The ground rumbled as the baku stomped around to face them. Hot breath spewed from flaring nostrils and it pawed the dirt. With a high-pitched shriek, it charged.

Castiel rolled out of the way, ending up on one side of the creature, Dean and Sam on the other. And the blasted cretin had turned its attention toward them. The Winchesters darted under an overhang for cover as the baku swung its head after them. Its gigantic tusks crashed through support pillars, threatening to bring down the top floor on their heads.

Staggering to his feet, Castiel gripped his angel blade. It would inflict injury on the chimera, but he’d have to get close. The beast roared and plowed into the wall the brothers had scampered behind, and Castiel froze in a moment of terror until he saw them stumble out the other side before the stone crumbled. Unfortunately, the demolition seemed to harm the baku as little as the dream weapons had.

But the creature shouldn’t have dismissed Castiel. He leaped at the saurian, dragon-like head while it was turned away, plunging his blade into the side of the face. Though his sword did pierce flesh, it wasn’t deep enough to penetrate the brain. The baku jerked upward, and the blade slipped down to catch on the cheek bone.

Wither another enraged howl, the monster swung its head violently. The smooth side of its tusk caught Castiel in the ribs, knocking him back. He flew through the air and hit the ground hard, sparks exploding across his vision. The world turned fuzzy, and he marveled at the speckles for a moment—dazzling stars shining despite the toxic, churning sky. Someone shouted his name, followed by another panicked voice yelling at Dean.

Blinking the stars away, Castiel pushed himself up in time to see Dean roll under the baku. Fear clenched his chest. What was he _thinking_? Dammit, Dean Winchester never thought; he simply dove in.

Dean held the twenty-inch spicule from when the baku had been a mere canine size, hardly a formidable weapon against the behemoth before them. The hunter flipped onto his back and thrust the stake up into the creature’s soft underside. With a horrendous screech, the chimera’s hindquarters buckled. Terror spiked through Castiel as he lost sight of Dean under the titanic mass.

_No…_

He crawled to his knees, chest heaving, unable to take complete breaths for some reason. Then the baku limped forward, and Castiel caught a glimpse of Sam hauling Dean to safety. Thank God.

With effort, Castiel rose to his feet again, swaying slightly. Those glittering stars were gracing his vision once more, only this time he fought to see through them. He saw Sam gesturing at one of the massive, recently fired quills, nearly two feet in diameter and six feet long. Dean followed his brother’s lead, and the Winchesters scrambled over to heave it up. Bracing the base inside a notch in the crumbling wall, they angled the gleaming tip forward.

_“Cas, you gotta drive it this way.”_

Castiel nodded once, acknowledging the silent prayer. He no longer had a weapon, but it didn’t matter; his strength was rapidly waning, leaving only one course of action.

He strode around the baku’s front, directly opposite of where Sam and Dean stood ready to impale the monster. Gurgling spit and blood from its cloven cheek, the chimera pawed at its face in an effort to dislodge the angel blade. It finally succeeded, and the sword clattered to the ground. Nostrils flaring, the baku snapped a savage glower at Castiel. It pulled its lips back and hissed, pinkish saliva spritzing the air.

Castiel drew his shoulders back, ignoring the twinge in his chest and the slight burning in his lungs. His grace quivered as he summoned it, but he poured every mental and physical faculty into the heart of his being. His power contracted a fraction before exploding in a burst of pure, blinding energy.

Sam and Dean were shielded behind the baku’s hulking form, and the creature took the blast full in the face. It reared up with an agonized screech, pitching backward right into the pointed prong.

Castiel didn’t have time to see whether the Winchesters were squashed, for blinding pain split his head and he dropped to his knees. The baku flipped onto its back, its own quill protruding all the way through center mass. Its legs twitched, and soon its whole frame was writhing as ichor squirted from the wound. With a gasping wheeze, the chimera opened its maw and expelled a wave of inky refuse.

The pressure on Castiel’s chest and head increased as the creature wretched up what it had devoured, deflating like a balloon as it did. In a matter of minutes, it had shrunk down past its normal size, until it curled in on itself and suddenly imploded. A concussive force slammed into Castiel, flattening him against the ground.

Through his darkening vision, he watched the stone walls bend and the air refract into curls of smoke. Hell’s landscape melted away as Castiel’s eyelids slipped closed.


	12. When I Wake

Sam bolted upright with a gasp. Lukewarm air with a hint of coffee grounds filled his nose, and he frantically twisted around to take in his surroundings. He was lying on the bed in their motel room. No Hell, no monsters, no baku. He patted himself down, relieved to find his clothes dry and clean, no tatters in the fabric or his skin.

He started when Dean jolted into consciousness from the chair next to the bed. His brother whipped around, eyes wide looking for danger. Gripping the armrests, he finally settled on Sam.

“Are we awake?” he asked nervously.

“Pretty sure,” Sam said. They’d killed the baku, so it had to be over.

They both turned their gazes to the second bed where Cas lay, unmoving.

Dean surged to his feet. “Cas?” He patted the angel’s cheek. “Cas!”

Sam scrambled from bed and hurried around to Castiel’s other side, taking his wrist. A faint but steady throb pulsated under his fingers. “He’s alive.”

“Why the hell isn’t he waking up?”

Sam’s mouth tightened as he recalled those last moments before Cas’s dream world collapsed. “Remember that light? Cas must have used his grace.” Which had been running low to begin with. What if he’d used the last of his juice?

Dean swore under his breath. “Stupid son-of-a-bitch.”

Sam grimaced. The fight hadn’t exactly been going their way. Cas using his grace was probably the only thing that could have saved them at that point. But if he didn’t recover from this…no, Sam couldn’t think that way.

“Maybe he just needs to sleep it off?” he suggested.

Dean rubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Angels don’t sleep.”

Sam glanced at Cas. _Yeah._

He and Dean puttered around the room, going through the mindless motions of cleaning their guns and checking supplies. Sam nibbled at some crackers, but he wasn’t that hungry, despite the fact they’d spent almost ten hours in Cas’s dream world. Daylight relinquished its reins to night, and still Cas didn’t wake.

Dean paced the room like a prowling lion, aggravating Sam’s already frayed nerves. He’d taken his laptop and retreated to the other bed, scrolling through an online copy of Dante’s _Inferno_ , simply out of a morbid need to stay awake. Neither of them wanted to try sleeping. They ended up going through their coffee and Red Bull supply, now to simply avoid normal nightmares…and be up when Cas finally came to.

Sam ran his hands through his hair and flicked a sidelong glance at the comatose angel on the opposite bed. Cas _had_ to pull through.

But by the next day, Sam was growing worried. What were they supposed to do? They couldn’t stay in the motel indefinitely. Did they pack up and take Cas to Bobby’s? Then what? If Cas had used up all his grace, would he be in a coma forever? Was he human now? Or was this just Jimmy’s empty vessel?

Dean hardly spoke a word as he alternated between sitting by Cas’s side and re-cleaning and assembling his guns a second, third, and fourth time. Sam eyed his brother furtively, but didn’t say anything either.

It was mid-afternoon when a soft inhale finally issued from the still form.

Dean had been sitting by the bed, and surged out of the chair, almost knocking it over. “Cas?”

Sam bolted from the table and rushed around to the other side as Castiel’s eyelids fluttered open. His shoulders sagged in relief. _Thank God._

Cas blinked at them several times, lifting his head slightly in bewilderment before sinking back against the pillow. “You both made it.” His eyelids began drooping again. “I’m…glad.”

“Hey, no, stay awake.” Panic laced Dean’s voice, and he shook Cas roughly. “Don’t go to sleep.”

“Angels don’t sleep,” Cas mumbled.

“Then open your eyes. That’s it.”

Cas’s blue irises gradually cleared of their cloudy film as they focused on them, and he cocked his head against the pillow in his usual perplexed mien. After a long moment of silence, Sam lifted his brows in expectation of a question, but Cas seemed to have withdrawn into himself.

“Dude, hey.” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Castiel’s face, earning another round of blinks. “No sleeping with your eyes open either.”

Cas quirked a brow. “That seems highly problematic.”

Sam smirked, relief and worry duking it out in his stomach. “How’re you feeling?”

Cas slowly turned his head to take in the room, and then tried to push himself up on his elbows. He didn’t get far before a groan escaped his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut. Sam and Dean grabbed his arms while Sam propped another pillow behind him.

“Take it easy,” Dean said as they eased him back. “You alright?”

“I feel…” Cas squinted. “Unwell.”

Sam’s jaw slackened in surprise. An honest answer. That was either reassuring…or very unsettling.

“But you’ll be okay, right?” he asked. “We killed the baku.” And it’d apparently coughed up everything it’d eaten, so Cas should suffer no permanent damage…yet how would they know? It wasn’t like Cas was a ball of happy, hopeful laughs normally.

Castiel was silent for a beat longer than Sam liked. “Yes…the baku’s effects were undone.”

Dean snorted. “The baku’s effects? How about the effects of using your grace like a grenade? That is what you did, right? Dammit, Cas, do you even have any left?”

Cas didn’t meet Dean’s gaze, and Sam’s pulse jumped. Shit, what if he had lost all his power?

“My grace is weakened,” Castiel admitted guardedly. “But it will replenish…to a degree.”

Sam exchanged a concerned look with Dean, whose face was turning red with barely controlled ire. But just when Sam thought his brother was about to go ballistic, Dean swallowed hard and smoothed his features. Pulling his chair closer to the bed, he took a seat and leaned his elbows on the mattress.

“Okay, time to talk. Sam’s right; putting this off isn’t doing any of us any favors. And we both owe you way more than that.”

Cas tilted his head. “What are you talking about?”

“You falling, man. You need to be upfront with us about that shit so we don’t get blindsided like this again.”

Cas ducked his gaze, and Sam suppressed a sigh. Dean meant well, but he could be too abrasive about things. Sam grabbed the second chair from the dinette table and scooted it close to the other side of the bed.

“We’re not blaming you, Cas. Look, I know this slowly falling thing isn’t easy on you, and that you don’t really know what to expect, but you gotta tell us what’s going on or we can’t help you deal with it.”

Cas gritted his teeth. “It’s fine.”

“Bullshit.” Dean fixed the angel with an irate glare. “You’ve been in a coma for almost a day since Sam and I woke up.”

Cas’s expression went lax with incredulity, eyes drifting down to his hands. Sam watched him flex his fingers tentatively, and frowned at the concentration on Castiel’s face.

“Cas,” Sam continued. “We’re not saying you’re weak, or _useless_ , but you’re not invincible anymore.”

“I endangered you,” Cas interrupted softly.

“No, that’s not my point—”

“But it’s mine,” he ground out, finally looking up with a spark of chagrin in his eye. “I should have been able to defeat the baku when it first appeared. The fact that it got the better of me…” He glanced away, jaw tightening. “You and Dean are not supposed to protect me. I’m supposed to protect _you_.”

“We protect each other,” Sam insisted, and shot Dean a silent plea to help him out.

Dean shook his head in exasperation. “Look, man, I know I’m not really good at being in touch with feelings and all that crap. But Sam’s right. You’re going through some stuff right now, and we want to be there for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“Oh for crying out loud,” Dean growled. “You’ve been there for us plenty of times; let us return the favor. So _talk_ to us.”

Castiel was silent for a long moment as he stared at a loose thread on the bed cover. “I don’t know…” His face pinched. “What I am anymore.”

Dean frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Cas sighed. “I’m barely an angel. Moloch may have been a figment, but he had a point—there is nowhere for a falling angel to go but down.”

Dean shot Sam an alarmed look, but Sam didn’t think this was some hollow despair left over from the baku’s attack; this was something Cas had probably been wrestling with since the day he Fell. Sam should have seen it coming.

He gripped Cas’s arm. “That’s not going to happen.”

Cas turned to him, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “I’m not human; I don’t have a soul like you or Dean to return to Heaven when I die. Angels have grace, and mine is waning. If I’m not an angel anymore, then what _am_ I?”

Sam didn’t even have to think about it. “You’re a Winchester. And I’m sorry, but baggage is kind of a requirement.”

Cas sighed. “We are not related.”

Sam’s face fell; he’d really thought Cas had learned otherwise.

“But you are family,” Dean said sharply. “Maybe you don’t belong in Heaven anymore—though frankly, you don’t belong with those dicks even if you weren’t cut off. You belong with us. And Cas, just because you’re falling doesn’t change _who_ you are.”

“Yeah,” Sam jumped in. “You can put all kinds of labels on me and Dean.” He pointed to himself. “Boy with demon blood.”

“Drunk, Hell’s star torturer.”

“But that doesn’t define us. You said so yourself, what you see in us. Well, no matter what happens with your grace, or anything else, you’re still _our_ brother.”

Dean leaned forward with that penetrating, no-nonsense gaze. “You hear us?”

Cas slowly nodded, that amazed and slightly pained expression on his face that meant he was grateful yet completely bewildered that anyone would think of him that way. One of these days Sam hoped he’d believe beyond a shadow of a doubt how much he meant to them.

“Yes, I understand.”

Dean nodded. “Good. But you still need to tell us when your powers are on the fritz so we can work around it. We can’t lose you, Cas.” He jabbed a finger at the angel. “And that means no more self-sacrificing crap.”

Sam had to agree with that one. He never wanted to go through another night like the one they’d just had.

Castiel’s forehead creased, but he didn’t argue.

Dean slapped the edge the bed. “Okay, second chick-flick moment over. I think we’ve filled our quota for the year. Now let’s go for pie.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s not a chick thing to do? You want to hug first?”

Dean scowled. “Pie is not girly.”

Sam bit back a snicker, but then had an idea. Smiling, he turned back to Cas. “Actually, I think Cas should try some ice cream.”

Castiel gave him a funny look. “I haven’t fallen far enough to require human nourishment.”

Sam snorted. “Ice cream is about as nourishing as pie.”

“Hey, bite your tongue,” Dean clipped.

“Come on, Cas,” Sam continued, ignoring his brother. “You’ll love it. There are dozens of flavors to choose from.”

“And toppings,” Dean conceded.

Castiel seemed to think about it for a moment. “Alright,” he said warily. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Sam made a mental note to warn Cas about brain-freeze.

He waited while Cas sat all the way up, watching for signs of dizziness or pain, but the angel seemed to be recovering at last. Sure, he couldn’t jump to his feet with the flap of his wings—which Sam had a whole new appreciation for—but he was alive and back with them. And for the moment, they were headed out like a normal family doing a normal thing.

Well, as “normal” as the Winchesters could get with an angel in tow. Cas ended up flummoxed by all the ice cream choices while Dean tried to explain what each one tasted like.

“It tastes like…you know, bubblegum!”

“I don’t believe bubblegum is digestible.”

“Yeah, but it’s just the taste. You know what, never mind. How about chocolate? You can never go wrong there. And sprinkles.”

Sam grinned. Yeah, the world was ending, and they had no idea if any of them would survive, but as long as they stuck together, they had a chance.

* * *

Castiel found the taste of chocolate ice cream intriguing…and surprisingly pleasant. He didn’t care for the sprinkles though, which crunched like chalky splinters of dirt in his mouth. Not that he told Dean that, after the hunter had gone to such trouble trying to find a flavor for Castiel to try. He suspected the point of the excursion was not the ice cream anyway, but the camaraderie they shared. Two boys, broken in their own way, yet together strong enough to stand against the forces of Heaven and Hell. And now an equally broken angel. But for the first time since he started falling, Castiel began to believe that the Winchesters had not only the fervent desire, but also the ability to catch him.


End file.
